BURNED 
BRIDGES 


3ERTRAND  W  SINCLAIR 


BURNED  BRIDGES 


Hovels  b£ 
BERTRAND  W.  SINCLAIR 

NORTH  OF  FIFTY-THREE 
Bio  TIMBER 
BURNED  BRIDGES 


He  fi'lt  with  an  odd  exaltation  the  <]iiirk   hamm<  r  of   her  heart 
against  his   breast.      FRONTISPIECE.     See  page   1)5. 


BURNED    BRIDGES 


BY 


BERTRAND   W.   SINCLAIR 


WITH   FRONTISPIECE    BY 

RALPH  P.   COLEMAN 


BOSTON 

LITTLE,  BROWN,   AND   COMPANY 
1919 


Copyright,  1919, 
BT  LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY. 


All  rights  reserved 
Published,  August,  1919 


C\> 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PA.QE 

I  THE  FIRST  PROBLEM        .        .        »        •        •  1 

II  THE  MAN  AND  His  MISSION   .        .        .        .  14 

ITT  THE  DESERTED  CABIN     .        .        ...  24 

IV  IN  WHICH  MR.  THOMPSON  BEGINS  TO  WONDER 

PAINFULLY     *        .....        .        .  37 

V  FURTHER  ACQUAINTANCE  .        .        .     -  .        .  46 

VI  CERTAIN  PERPLEXITIES     .                .        .        .  60 

Vn  A  SLIP  OF  THE  AXE         .        .        ...  80 

\I_I1  —  AND  THE  FRUITS  THEREOF  .        i        .        .  86 

IX  UNIVERSAL  ATTRIBUTES    .....  93 

X  THE  WAY  OF  A  MAID  WITH  A  MAN       .        .  102 

XI  A  MAN'S  JOB  FOR  A  MINISTER       .        .        .  Ill 

XH  A  FORTUNE  AND  A  FLITTING    .        .  *     .     .  ,  123 

Xm  PARTNERS.        .        .        .       .....  139 

XTV  THE  RESTLESS  FOOT        .        .        .        .        .  150 

XV    THE  WORLD  Is  SMALL 158 

XVI  A  MEETING  BY  THE  WAY        ....  168 

XVIE  THE  REPROOF  COURTEOUS  (?)         .        .        .183 

XVin  MR.  HENDERSON'S  PROPOSITION      .        .        .  191 

XIX  A  WIDENING  HORIZON      .        «        .        .        .  203 

XX    THE  SHADOW 210 

XXI  THE  RENEWED  TRIANGLE  218 


977C1G 


vi  CONTENTS 

CHAPTEE  PAOB 

XXII  SUNDRY  REFLECTIONS 227 

XXm  THE  FUSE  - 235 

XXTV  —AND  THE  MATCH  THAT  LIT  THE  FUSE —  .  244 

XXV  —AND  THE  BOMB  THE  FUSE  FIRED  .  .  254 

XXVI  THE  LAST  BRIDGE 267 

XXVII  THOMPSON'S  RETURN 273 

XXVm  FAIR  WINDS 282 

XXIX  Two  MEN  AND  A  WOMAN  «...  291 

XXX  A  MARK  TO  SHOOT  AT     .        .  298 


BURNED  BRIDGES 


BURNED  BRIDGES 


CHAPTER  I 

THE    FIEST    PROBLEM 

LONE  MOOSE  snaked  its  way  through  levels  of  wood 
land  and  open  stretches  of  meadow,  looping  sinuously 
as  a  sluggish  python  —  a  python  that  rested  its  mouth 
upon  the  shore  of  Lake  Athabasca  while  its  tail  was 
lost  in  a  great  area  of  spruce  forest  and  poplar  groves, 
of  reedy  sloughs  and  hushed  lakes  far  northward. 

The  waterways  of  the  North  are  its  highways.  There 
are  no  others.  No  wheeled  vehicles  traverse  that  silent 
region  which  lies  just  over  the  fringe  of  the  prairies  and 
the  great  Canadian  wheat  belt.  The  canoe  is  lord  of 
those  watery  roads ;  when  a  man  would  diverge  there 
from  he  must  carry  his  goods  upon  his  back.  There 
are  paths,  to  be  sure,  very  faint  in  places,  padded  down 
by  the  feet  of  generations  of  Athabascan  tribesmen  long 
before  the  Ancient  and  Honorable  Company  of  Adven 
turers  laid  the  foundation  of  the  first  post  at  Hudson's 
Bay,  long  before  the  Half  Moon's  prow  first  cleft  those 
desolate  waters.  They  have  been  trodden,  these  dim 
trails,  by  Scotch  and  French  and  English  since  that 
historic  event,  and  by  a  numerous  progeny  in  whose 
veins  the  blood  of  all  three  races  mingles  with  that  of 
the  native  tribes.  But  these  paths  lead  only  from 


?  BURNED    BRIDGES 

stream  to  stream  and  from  lake  to  lake.  No  man 
familiar  with  the  North  seeks  along  those  faint  trails 
for  camp  or  fur  posts  or  villages.  Wherever  in  that 
region  red  men  or  white  set  up  a  permanent  abode  it 
must  of  necessity  be  on  the  bank  of  a  stream  or  the 
shore  of  a  lake,  from  whence  by  canoe  and  paddle 
access  is  gained  to  the  network  of  water  routes  that 
radiate  over  the  fur  country. 

Lone  Moose  Creek  was,  so  to  speak,  a  trunk  line. 
The  ninety  miles  of  its  main  channel,  its  many  diverging 
branches,  tapped  a  region  where  mink  and  marten  and 
beaver,  fox  and  wolf  and  lesser  furs  were  still  fairly 
plentiful.  Along  Lone  Moose  a  dozen  Cree  and  half- 
breed  families  disappeared  into  the  back  country  dur 
ing  the  hazy  softness  of  Indian  summer  and  came 
gliding  down  in  the  spring  with  their  winter's  catch,  a 
birch-bark  flotilla  laden  indiscriminately  with  mongrel 
dogs  and  chattering  women  and  children  and  baled  furs 
and  impassive-faced  men,  bound  for  Port  Pachugan  to 
the  annual  barter. 

Up  Lone  Moose  some  twenty-odd  miles  from  the 
lake  the  social  instinct  had  drawn  a  few  families, 
pure-blooded  Cree,  and  Scotch  and  French  half-breeds, 
to  settle  in  a  permanent  location.  There  was  a  cres 
cent-shaped  area  of  grassy  turf  fronting  upon  the 
eastern  bank  of  Lone  Moose,  totaling  perhaps  twenty 
acres.  Its  outer  edge  was  ringed  with  a  dense  growth 
of  spruce  timber.  In  the  fringe  of  these  dusky  woods, 
at  various  intervals  of  distance,  could  be  seen  the 
outline  of  each  cabin.  They  were  much  of  a  sort  — 
two  or  three  rooms,  log-walled,  brush  laid  upon  poles, 


THE    FIRST    PROBLEM  3 

and  sod  on  top  of  that  for  a  roof,  with  fireplaces 
built  partly  of  mud,  partly  of  rough  stones.  Folk  ill 
such  circumstances  waste  no  labor  in  ornamentation. 
Each  family's  abiding  place  was  purely  utilitarian. 
They  cultivated  no  land,  and  the  meadow  during  the 
brief  season  supplied  them  with  a  profusion  of  delicate 
flowers  a  southern  garden  could  scarcely  excel.  Aside 
from  a  few  trees  felled  about  each  home  site,  their  com 
mon  effort  had  cleared  away  the  willows  and  birch  which 
bordered  the  creek  bank,  so  that  an  open  landing  was 
afforded  the  canoes. 

There  was  but  one  exception  to  the  monotonous  simil 
itude  of  these  several  habitations.  A  few  paces  bacl* 
from  the  stream  and  standing  boldly  in  the  open  rose 
a  log  house  double  the  size  of  any  other  there.  It 
contained  at  least  four  rooms.  Its  windows  were  of 
ample  size,  the  doors  neatly  carpentered.  A  wide  porch 
ran  on  three  sides.  It  bore  about  itself  an  air  of  homely 
comfort,  heightened  by  muslin  at  the  windows,  a  fringe 
of  poppies  and  forget-me-nots  blooming  in  an  orderly 
row  before  it,  and  a  sturdy  vine  laden  with  morning- 
glories  twining  up  each  supporting  column  of  the  porch 
roof. 

Between  the  house  and  the  woods  an  acre  square  was 
enclosed  by  a  tall  picket  fence.  Within  the  fence, 
which  was  designed  as  a  barricade  against  foraging 
deer,  there  grew  a  variety  of  vegetables.  The  produce 
of  that  garden  had  grown  famous  far  beyond  Lone 
Moose  village.  But  the  spirit  and  customs  and  tra 
ditions  of  the  gardener's  neighbors  were  all  against  any 
attempt  to  duplicate  it.  They  were  hunters  and  trap- 


4  BURNED    BRIDGES 

pers  and  fishermen.  The  woods  and  waters  supplied 
their  every  need. 

Upon  a  blistering  day  in  July,  a  little  past  noon,  a 
man  stepped  out  on  the  porch,  and  drawing  into  the 
shadiest  part  a  great,  rude  homemade  chair  uphol 
stered  with  moosehide,  sat  down.  He  had  a  green- 
bound  book  in  his  hand.  While  he  stuffed  a  clay  pipe 
full  of  tobacco  he  laid  the  volume  across  his  knees. 
Every  movement  was  as  deliberate  as  the  flow  of  the 
deep  stream  near  by.  When  he  had  stoked  up  his 
pipe  he  leaned  back  and  opened  the  book.  The  smoke 
from  his  pipe  kept  off  what  few  mosquitoes  were  abroad 
in  the  scorching  heat  of  midday. 

A  casual  glance  would  at  once  have  differentiated  him 
from  a  native,  held  him  guiltless  of  any  trace  of  native 
blood.  His  age  might  have  been  anywhere  between 
forty  and  fifty.  His  hair,  now  plentifully  shot  with 
gray,  had  been  a  light,  wavy  brown.  His  eyes  were  a 
clear  gray,  and  his  features  were  the  antithesis  of  his 
high-cheekboned  neighbors.  Only  the  weather-beaten 
hue  of  his  skin,  and  the  scores  of  fine  seams  radiating 
from  his  eyes  told  of  many  seasons  squinting  against 
hot  sunlight  and  harsh  winds. 

Whatever  his  vocation  and  manner  of  living  may 
have  been  he  was  now  deeply  absorbed  in  the  volume 
he  held.  A  small  child  appeared  on  the  porch,  a  young 
ster  of  three  or  thereabouts,  with  swarthy  skin,  very 
dark  eyes,  and  inky-black  hair.  He  went  on  all  fours 
across  Sam  Carr's  extended  feet  several  times.  Carr 
remained  oblivious,  or  at  least  undisturbed,  until  the 
child  stood  up,  laid  hold  of  his  knee  and  shook  it  with 


THE    FIRST    PROBLEM  5 

playful  persistence.  Then  Carr  looked  over  his  book, 
spoke  to  the  boy  casually,  shaking  his  head  as  he  did 
so.  The  boy  persisted  after  the  juvenile  habit.  Carr 
raised  his  voice.  An  Indian  woman,  not  yet  of  middle 
age  but  already  inclining  to  the  stoutness  which  over 
takes  women  of  her  race  early  in  life,  appeared  in  the 
doorway.  She  spoke  sharply  to  the  boy  in  the  deep, 
throaty  language  of  her  people.  The  boy,  with  a  last 
impish  grin,  gave  the  man's  leg  a  final  shake  and  scut 
tled  indoors.  Carr  impassively  resumed  his  reading. 

An  hour  or  so  later  he  lifted  his  eyes  from  the  printed 
page  at  a  distant  boom  of  thunder.  The  advanced  edge 
of  a  black  cloud-bank  rolling  swiftly  up  from  the  east 
was  already  dimming  the  brassy  glare  of  the  sun.  He 
watched  the  swift  oncoming  of  the  storm.  With  aston 
ishing  rapidity  the  dark  mass  resolved  itself  into  a 
gray,  obscuring  streak  of  rain  riven  by  vivid  flashes  of 
lightning.  Carr  laid  down  his  book  and  refilled  his 
pipe  while  he  gazed  on  this  common  phenomenon  of  the 
dog-days.  It  swept  up  and  passed  over  the  village  of 
Lone  Moose  as  a  sprinkling  wagon  passes  over  a  city 
street.  The  downpour  was  accompanied  by  crashing 
detonations  that  sent  the  village  dogs  howling  to  cover. 
With  the  same  uncanny  swiftness  of  gathering  so  it 
passed,  leaving  behind  a  pleasant  coolness  in  the  air, 
clean  smells  of  the  washed  earth  arising.  The  sun 
blazed  out  again.  A  million  rain-pearls  hung  glisten 
ing  on  the  blades  of  grass  in  the  meadow  before  Sam 
Carr's  house. 

With  the  passing  of  the  thunder  shower,  before  Carr 
left  off  his  contemplation  of  the  freshened  beauty  of 


6  BURNED    BRIDGES 

meadow  and  woods,  a  man  and  a  woman  emerged  from 
the  spruce  forest  on  the  farther  side  of  the  meadow. 

They  walked  a  little  way  in  the  open,  stopped  for  a 
minute,  facing  each  other.  Their  conversation  ended 
\vith  a  sudden  quick  gesture  by  the  man.  Turning, 
they  came  on  again  toward  Carr's  house.  Sam  Carr's 
clear  gray  eyes  lit  up.  The  ghost  of  a  smile  hovered 
about  his  bearded  lips.  He  watched  them  approach 
with  that  same  quizzical  expression,  a  mixture,  if  one 
gauged  his  look  aright,  of  pleasure  and  pride  and 
expectation. 

They  were  young  as  years  go,  the  pair  that  walked 
slowly  up  to  the  cabin.  The  man  was  certainly  still 
in  his  twenties,  of  medium  height,  compactly  muscular, 
a  good-looking  specimen  of  pure  Anglo-Saxon  man 
hood.  The  girl  was  a  flower  in  perfect  bloom,  fresh- 
colored,  slender  and  pliant  as  a  willow,  with  all  of  the 
willow's  grace  in  every  movement.  For  all  the  twenty- 
odd  years  between  them,  and  the  gulf  of  sex  differentia 
tion,  there  was  in  her  glance  and  bearing  much  of  the 
middle-aged  man  who  sat  on  the  porch  with  a  book 
across  his  knees  and  a  clay  pipe  in  his  mouth.  It  did 
not  lie  in  facial  resemblance.  It  was  more  subtle  than 
likeness  of  feature.  Perhaps  it  was  because  of  their 
eyes,  alike  deep  gray,  wide  and  expressive,  lifted  always 
to  meet  another's  in  level  unembarrassed  frankness. 

They  halted  at  the  edge  of  the  porch.  The  girl  sat 
down.  The  young  man  nodded  to  Carr.  Though  they 
had  but  lately  been  fair  in  the  path  of  the  thunder 
storm  they  had  escaped  a  wetting.  The  girl's  eyes 
followed  her  father's  glance,  seemed  to  read  his  thought. 


THE    FIRST    PROBLEM  7 

"  We  happened  to  find  a  spruce  thick  enough  to 
shed  the  rain,"  she  smiled.  "  Or  I  suppose  we'd  have 
been  soaked  properly." 

The  young  fellow  tarried  only  till  she  was  seated. 
He  had  no  more  than  greeted  Carr  before  he  lifted  his 
old  felt  hat  to  her. 

"  I'll  be  paddling  back  while  the  coolness  lasts," 
said  he.  "  Good-by." 

"  Good-by,  Tommy,"  the  girl  answered. 

"  So  long,"  Carr  followed  suit.  "  Don't  give  us  the 
go-by  too  long." 

"  Oh,  no  danger." 

He  walked  to  the  creek  bank,  stepped  into  a  red 
canoe  that  lay  nose  on  to  the  landing,  and  backed  it 
free  with  his  paddle.  Ten  strokes  of  the  blade  drove 
him  out  of  sight  around  the  first  brushy  bend  upstream. 

The  girl  looked  thoughtfully  after  him.  Her  face 
was  flushed,  and  her  eyes  glowed  with  some  queer  re 
pressed  feeling.  Carr  sat  gazing  silently  at  her  while 
she  continued  to  look  after  the  vanished  canoe  whose 
passing  left  tiny  swirls  on  the  dark,  sluggish  current 
of  Lone  Moose.  Presently  Carr  gave  the  faintest 
shrug  of  his  lean  shoulders  and  resumed  the  reading  of 
his  book. 

When  he  looked  up  from  the  page  again  after  a  con 
siderable  interval  the  girl's  eyes  were  fixed  intently  upon 
his  face,  with  a  queer  questioning  expression  in  them,  a 
mute  appeal.  He  closed  his  book  with  a  forefinger 
inserted  to  mark  the  place,  and  leaned  forward  a  trifle. 

"  What  is  it,  Sophie?  "  he  asked  gently.     "  Eh?  " 

The  girl,  like  her  father,  and  for  that  matter  the 


8  BURNED    BRIDGES 

majority  of  those  who  dwelt  in  that  region,  wore  moc 
casins.     She    sat   now,    rubbing   the   damp,   bead-dec 
orated  toe  of  one  on  top  of  the  other,  her  hands  resting 
idle  in  the  lap  of  her  cotton  dress.     She  seemed  scarceh 
to  hear,  but  Carr  waited  patiently.     She  continued  to 
look  at  him  with  that  peculiar,  puzzled  quality  in  her 
eyes. 

"  Tommy  Ashe  wants  me  to  marry  him,"  she  sau 
at  last. 

The  faint  flush  on  her  smooth  cheeks  deepened.  The 
glow  in  her  eyes  gave  way  altogether  to  that  vaguely 
troubled  expression. 

Carr  stroked  his  short  beard  reflectively. 

"  Well,"  he  said  at  length,  "  seeing  that  human 
nature's  what  it  is,  I  can't  say  I'm  surprised  any  more 
than  I  would  be  surprised  at  the  trees  leafing  out  in 
spring.  And,  as  it  happens,  Tommy  observed  the  con 
ventions  of  his  class  in  this  matter.  He  asked  me 
about  it  a  few  days  ago.  I  referred  him  to  you.  Are 
you  going  to?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  Dad,"  she  murmured. 

"Do  you  want  to?"  he  pursued  the  inquiry  in  a 
detached,  impersonal  tone. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  repeated  soberly.  "  I  like 
Tommy  a  lot.  When  I'm  with  him  I  feel  sure  I'd  be 
perfectly  happy  to  be  always  with  him.  When  I'm 
away  from  him,  I'm  not  so  sure." 

"  In  other  words,"  Carr  observed  slowly,  "  your 
reason  and  your  emotions  are  not  in  harmony  on  that 
subject.  Eh?  So  far  as  Tommy  Ashe  goes,  your 
mind  and  your  body  pull  you  two  different  ways." 


THE    FIRST    PROBLEM  9 

She  looked  at  him  a  little  more  keenly. 

"  Perhaps,"  she  said.  "  I  know  what  you  mean. 
But  I  don't  clearly  see  why  it  should  be  so.  Either  I 
love  Tommy  Ashe,  or  I  don't,  and  I  should  know  which, 
shouldn't  I?  The  first  and  most  violent  manifestation 
of  love  is  mostly  physical,  isn't  it?  I've  always  under 
stood  that.  You've  pointed  it  out.  I  do  like  Tommy. 
Why  should  my  mind  act  as  a  brake  on  my  feelings  ?  " 

"  Because  you  happen  to  be  made  the  way  you  are," 
Carr  returned  thoughtfully.  "  As  I've  told  you  a  good 
many  times,  you've  grown  up  a  good  deal  different  from 
the  common  run  of  girls.  We've  been  isolated.  Lack 
ing  the  time-occupying  distractions  and  pleasures  of 
youth  in  a  more  liberal  environment,  Sophie,  you've 
been  thrown  back  on  yourself  and  me  and  books,  and 
as  a  result  you've  cultivated  a  natural  tendency  to 
think.  Most  young  women  don't.  They're  seldom 
taught  any  rational  process  of  arriving  at  conclusions. 
You  have  developed  that  faculty.  It  has  been  my 
pride  and  pleasure  to  cultivate  in  you  what  I  believed 
to  be  a  decided  mentality.  I've  tried  to  show  you  how 
to  get  down  to  fundamentals,  to  work  out  a  philosophy 
of  life  that's  really  workable.  Knowledge  is  worth  hav 
ing  for  its  own  sake.  Once  you  find  yourself  in  contact 
with  the  world  —  and  for  you  that  time  is  bound  to 
come  —  you'll  apply  all  the  knowledge  you've  absorbed 
to  problems  as  they  arise.  If  there's  a  rational  solu 
tion  to  any  situation  that  faces  you,  you'll  make  an 
effort  to  find  that  solution.  You'll  do  it  almost  in 
stinctively.  .  You  can't  help  it.  Your  brain  is  too 
alert  ever  to  let  you  act  blindly.  At  the  present  your 


io  BURNED    BRIDGES 

lack  of  experience  probably  handicaps  you  a  little. 
In  human  relations  you  have  nothing  much  but  theory, 
got  from  the  books  you've  digested  and  the  way  we've 
always  discussed  every  possible  angle  of  life.  Take 
Tommy  Ashe.  He's  practically  the  first  young,  at 
tractive  white  man  you've  ever  met,  the  very  first  pos 
sibility  as  a  lover.  Tommy's  a  nice  boy,  a  pleasant, 
sunny-natured  young  fellow.  Personally  he's  just  the 
sort  of  fellow  that  would  sweep  a  simple  country  girl 
clean  off  her  feet.  With  you,  your  mind,  as  you  just 
put  it,  acts  as  a  brake  on  your  feelings.  Can't  you 
guess  why?  " 

"  No,"  she  said  quietly.  "  I  can't.  I  don't  under 
stand  myself  and  my  shifts  of  feeling.  It  makes  me 
miserable." 

"  Look  here,  Sophie  girl,"  Carr  reached  over  and 
taking  her  by  the  hand  drew  her  up  on  the  low  arm  of 
his  chair,  "  you're  asking  yourself  a  more  or  less  im 
portant  question  directly,  and  you're  asking  it  of  me 
indirectly.  Maybe  I  can  help  you.  At  least  I  can 
tell  how  I  see  it.  You  have  all  your  life  before  you. 
You  want  to  be  happy.  That's  a  universal  human 
attribute.  Sometime  or  other  you're  going  to  mate 
with  a  man.  That  too  is  a  universal  experience.  Or 
dinary  mating  is  based  on  sex  instinct.  Love  is  mostly 
an  emotional  disturbance  generated  by  natural  causes 
for  profoundly  natural  and  important  ends.  But  mar 
riage  and  the  intimate  associations  of  married  life 
require  something  more  substantial  than  a  mere  flare-up 
of  animal  instinct.  Lots  of  men  and  women  aren't 
capable  of  anything  else,  and  consequently  they  make 


THE    FIRST    PROBLEM  n 

the  best  of  what's  in  them.  But  there  are  natures  far 
more  complex.  You,  Sophie,  are  one  of  those  complex 
natures.  With  you,  a  union  based  on  sex  alone  wouldn't 
survive  six  months.  Now,  in  this  particular  case,  leav 
ing  out  the  fact  that  you  can't  compare  Tommy  Ashe 
with  any  other  man,  because  you  don't  know  any  other 
man,  can  you  conceive  yourself  living  in  a  tolerable 
state  of  contentment  with  Tommy  if,  say,  you  didn't 
feel  any  more  passion  for  him  than  you  feel  for,  say, 
old  Standing  Wolf  over  there?  " 

"  But  that's  absurd,"  the  girl  declared.  "  Because 
I  have  got  that  feeling  for  Tommy  Ashe,  and  therefore 
I  can't  imagine  myself  in  any  other  state.  I  can't  look 
at  it  the  cold-blooded  way  you  do,  Daddy  dear." 

"  I'm  stating  a  hypothetical  case,"  Carr  went  on 
patiently.  "  You  do  now.  We'll  take  that  for 
granted.  Would  you  still  have  anything  fundamental 
in  common  with  Tommy  with  that  part  left  out?  Sup 
pose  you  got  so  you  didn't  care  whether  he  kissed  you 
or  not?  Suppose  it  were  no  longer  a  physical  pleasure 
just  to  be  near  him.  Would  you  enjoy  his  daily  and 
hourly  presence  then,  in  the  most  intimate  relation  a 
man  and  a  woman  can  hold  to  each  other?  " 

"  Why,  I  wouldn't  live  with  him  at  all,"  the  girl  said 
positively.  "  I  simply  couldn't.  I  know." 

"  You  might  have  to,"  Carr  answered  gently.  "  You 
have  never  yet  run  foul  of  circumstances  over  which 
you  have  no  more  power  than  man  has  over  the  run  of 
the  tides.  But  we'll  let  that  pass.  I'm  trying  to  help 
you,  Sophie,  not  to  discourage  you.  There  are  some 
situations  in  which,  and  some  natures  to  whom,  half  a 


12  BURNED    BRIDGES 

loaf  is  worse  than  no  bread.  Do  you  feel,  have  you 
ever  for  an  hour  felt  that  you  simply  couldn't  face  an 
existence  in  which  Tommy  Ashe  had  no  part?  " 

Sophie  put  her  arm  around  his  neck,  and  her  fingers 
played  a  tattoo  on  his  shoulder. 

"  No,"  she  said  at  last.  "  I  can't  honestly  say  that 
I've  ever  been  overwhelmed  with  a  feeling  like  that." 

"  Well,  there  you  are,"  Carr  observed  dryly.  "  Be 
tween  the  propositions  I  think  you've  answered  your 
own  question." 

The  girl's  breast  heaved  a  little  and  her  breath  went 
out  in  a  fluttering  sigh. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  gravely.     "  I  suppose  that  is  so." 

They  sat  silent  for  an  interval.  Then  something 
wet  and  warm  dropped  on  Carr's  hand.  He  looked  up 
quickly. 

"  Does  it  hurt?  "  he  said  softly.     "  I'm  sorry." 

"  So  am  I,"  she  whispered.  "  But  chiefly,  I  think, 
I  am  sorry  for  Tommy.  He'd  be  perfectly  happy  with 
me." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  Carr  replied.  "  But  you 
wouldn't  be  happy  with  him,  only  for  a  brief  time, 
Sophie.  Tommy's  a  good  boy,  but  it  will  take  a  good 
deal  of  a  man  to  fill  your  life.  You'd  outgrow  Tommy. 
And  you'd  hurt  him  worse  in  the  end." 

She  ran  her  soft  hand  over  Carr's  grizzled  hair  with 
a  caressing  touch.  Then  she  got  up  and  walked  away 
into  the  house.  Carr  turned  his  gaze  again  to  the 
meadow  and  the  green  woods  beyond.  For  ten  minutes 
he  sat,  his  posture  one  of  peculiar  tensity,  his  eyes  on 
the  distance  unseeingly  —  or  as  if  he  saw  something 


THE    FIRST    PROBLEM  13 

vague  and  far-off  that  troubled  him.  Then  he  gave  his 
shoulders  a  quick  impatient  twitch,  and  taking  up  his 
book  began  once  more  to  read. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE    MAN    AND    HIS    MISSION 

AT  almost  the  same  hour  in  which  Sam  Carr  and  his 
daughter  held  that  intimate  conversation  on  the  porch 
of  their  home  a  twenty-foot  Peterborough  freight  canoe 
was  sliding  down  the  left-hand  bank  of  the  Athabasca 
like  some  gray  river-beast  seeking  the  shade  of  the  birch 
and  willow  growth  that  overhung  the  shore.  The  cur 
rent  beneath  and  the  thrust  of  the  blades  sent  it  swiftly 
along  the  last  mile  of  the  river  and  shot  the  gray  canoe 
suddenly  beyond  the  sharp  nose  of  a  jutting  point 
fairly  into  the  bosom  of  a  great,  still  body  of  water 
that  spread  away  northeastward  in  a  widening  stretch, 
its  farthest  boundary  a  watery  junction  with  the 
horizon. 

There  were  three  men  in  the  canoe.  One  squatted 
forward,  another  rested  his  body  on  his  heels  in  the 
after  end.  These  two  were  swarthy,  stockily  built  men, 
scantily  clad,  moccasins  on  their  feet,  and  worn  felt 
hats  crowning  lank,  black  hair  long  innocent  of  a 
barber's  touch. 

The  third  man  sat  amidships  in  a  little  space  left 
among  goods  that  were  piled  to  the  top  of  the  deep- 
sided  craft.  He  was  no  more  like  his  companions  than 
the  North  that  surrounded  them  with  its  silent  water 
ways  and  hushed  forests  is  like  the  tropical  jungle. 


THE    MAN    AND    HIS    MISSION         15 

He  was  a  fairly  big  man,  taller,  wider-bodied  than  the 
other  two.  His  hair  was  a  reddish-brown,  his  eyes  as 
blue  as  the  arched  dome  from  which  the  hot  sun  shed 
its  glare. 

He  had  on  a  straight-brimmed  straw  hat  which  in 
the  various  shifts  of  the  long  water  route  and  many 
camps  had  suffered  disaster,  so  that  a  part  of  the  brim 
drooped  forlornly  over  his  left  ear.  This  headgear 
had  preserved  upon  his  brow  the  pallid  fairness  of  his 
skin.  From  the  eyebrows  down  his  face  was  in  the  last 
stages  of  sunburn,  reddened,  minute  shreds  of  skin 
flaking  away  much  as  a  snake's  skin  sheds  in  August. 
Otherwise  he  was  dressed,  like  a  countless  multitude  of 
other  men  who  walk  the  streets  of  every  city  in  North 
America,  in  a  conventional  sack  suit,  and  shoes  that 
still  bore  traces  of  blacking.  The  paddlers  were 
stripped  to  thin  cotton  shirts  and  worn  overalls.  The 
only  concession  their  passenger  had  made  to  the  heat 
was  the  removal  of  his  laundered  collar.  Apparently 
his  dignity  did  not  permit  him  to  lay  aside  his  coat 
and  vest.  As  they  cleared  the  point  a  faint  breeze 
wavered  off  the  open  water.  He  lifted  his  hat  and  let 
it  play  about  his  moist  hair. 

"  This  is  Lake  Athabasca?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oui,  M'sieu  Thompson,"  Mike  Breyette  answered 
from  the  bow,  without  turning  his  head.  "  Dees  de 
lak." 

"  How  much  longer  will  it  take  us  to  reach  Fort 
Pachugan?  "  Thompson  made  further  inquiry. 

"  Bout  two-three  hour,  maybeso,"  Breyette  re 
sponded. 


16  BURNED    BRIDGES 

He  said  something  further,  a  few  quick  sentences  in 
the  French  patois  of  the  northern  half-breeds,  at  which 
both  he  and  his  fellow-voyageur  in  the  stern  laughed. 
Their  gayety  stirred  no  response  from  the  midship  pas 
senger.  If  anything,  he  frowned.  He  was  a  serious- 
minded  young  man,  and  he  did  not  understand  French. 
He  had  a  faint  suspicion  that  his  convoy  did  not  take 
him  as  seriously  as  he  wished.  Whether  their  talk  was 
badinage  or  profanity  or  purely  casual,  he  could  not 
say.  In  the  first  stages  of  their  journey  together,  on 
the  upper  reaches  of  the  river,  Mike  Breyette  and 
Donald  MacDonald  had,  after  the  normal  habit  of  their 
kind,  greeted  the  several  contingencies  and  minor  mis 
haps  such  a  journey  involved  with  plaintive  oaths  in 
broken  English.  Mr.  Wesley  Thompson,  projected 
into  an  unfamiliar  environment  and  among  a  —  to  him 
—  strange  manner  of  men,  took  up  his  evangelistic 
cudgel  and  administered  shocked  reproof.  It  was,  in 
a  way,  practice  for  the  tasks  the  Methodist  Board  of 
Home  Missions  had  appointed  him  to  perform.  But 
if  he  failed  to  convict  these  two  of  sin,  he  convinced 
them  of  discourtesy.  Even  a  rude  voyageur  has  his 
code  of  manners.  Thereafter  they  invariably  swore  in 
French. 

They  bore  on  in  a  northerly  direction,  keeping  not 
too  far  from  the  lake  shore,  lest  the  combination  of  a 
sudden  squall  and  a  heavy-loaded  canoe  should  bring 
disaster.  When  Mike  Breyette's  "  two-tree "  hour 
was  run  Mr.  Thompson  stepped  from  the  canoe  to  the 
sloping,  sun-blistered  beach  before  Fort  Pachugan,  and 
if  he  did  not  openly  offer  thanks  to  his  Maker  that  he 


THE    MAN    AND    HIS    MISSION         17 

stood  once  more  upon  solid  ground  he  at  least  experi 
enced  profound  relief. 

For  many  days  he  had  occupied  that  midship  pqsi- 
tion  with  ill-concealed  misgivings.  The  largest  bodies 
of  water  he  had  been  on  intimate  terms  with  heretofore 
had  been  contained  within  the  dimensions  of  a  bathtub. 
He  could  not  swim.  No  matter  that  his  faith  in  an 
all-wise  Providence  was  strong  he  could  not  forbear 
inward  tremors  at  the  certain  knowledge  that  only  a 
scant  quarter-inch  of  frail  wood  and  canvas  stood  be 
tween  him  and  a  watery  grave.  He  regarded  a  canoe 
with  distrust.  Nor  could  he  understand  the  careless 
confidence  with  which  his  guides  embarked  in  so  captious 
a  craft  upon  the  swirling  bosom  of  that  wide,  swift 
stream  they  had  followed  from  Athabasca  Landing 
down  to  the  lake  of  the  same  name.  To  Thompson  — 
if  he  had  been  capable  of  analyzing  his  sensations  and 
transmuting  them  into  words  —  the  river  seemed  inex 
plicably  sinister,  a  turbid  monster  writhing  over  pol 
ished  boulders,  fuming  here  and  there  over  rapids, 
snarling  a  constant  menace  under  the  canoe's  prow. 

It  did  not  comfort  him  to  know  that  he  was  in  the 
hands  of  two  capable  rivermen,  tried  and  proven  in  bad 
water,  proud  of  their  skill  with  the  paddle.  Could  he 
have  done  so  the  reverend  young  man  would  gladly  have 
walked  after  the  first  day  in  their  company.  But  since 
that  was  out  of  the  question,  he  took  his  seat  in  the 
canoe  each  morning  and  faced  each  stretch  of  troubled 
water  with  an  inward  prayer. 

The  last  stretch  and  this  last  day  had  tried  his  soul 
to  its  utmost.  Pachugan  lay  near  the  end  of  the  water 


x8  BURNED    BRIDGES 

route.  What  few  miles  he  had  to  travel  beyond  the 
post  would  lie  along  the  lake  shore,  and  the  lake  re 
assured  him  with  its  smiling  calm.  Having  never  seen 
it  harried  by  fierce  winds,  pounding  the  beaches  with 
curling  waves,  he  could  not  visualize  it  as  other  than 
it  was  now,  glassy  smooth,  languid,  inviting.  Over  the 
last  twenty  miles  of  the  river  his  guides  had  strained  a 
point  now  and  then,  just  to  see  their  passenger  gasp. 
They  would  never  have  another  chance  and  it  was  rare 
sport,  just  as  it  is  rare  sport  for  spirited  youths  to 
snowball  a  passer-by  who  does  not  take  kindly  to  their 
pastime. 

In  addition  to  these  nerve-disturbing  factors  Thomp 
son  suffered  from  the  heat.  A  perverted  dignity,  nur 
tured  in  a  hard-shell,  middle-class  environment,  pre 
vented  him  from  stripping  to  his  undershirt.  The  sun's 
rays,  diffusing  abnormal  heat  through  the  atmosphere, 
reflected  piercingly  upward  from  the  water,  had  played 
havoc  with  him.  His  first  act  upon  landing  was  to 
seat  himself  upon  a  flat-topped  boulder  and  dab  ten 
derly  at  his  smarting  face  while  his  men  hauled  up  the 
canoe.  That  in  itself  was  a  measure  of  his  inefficiency, 
as  inefficiency  is  measured  in  the  North.  The  Chief 
Factor  of  a  district  large  enough  to  embrace  a  Euro 
pean  kingdom,  traveling  in  state  from  post  to  post, 
would  not  have  been  above  lending  a  hand  to  haul  the 
canoe  clear.  Thompson  had  come  to  this  terra  incog 
nita  to  preach  and  pray,  to  save  men's  souls.  So  far 
it  had  not  occurred  to  him  that  aught  else  might  be 
required  of  a  man  before  he  could  command  a  respect 
ful  hearing. 


THE    MAN    AND    HIS    MISSION         19 

Back  from  the  beach,  in  a  clearing  hacked  out  of  the 
woods,  stood  a  score  or  more  of  low  cabins  flanking  a 
building  more  ambitious  in  scope  and  structure.  More 
than  a  century  had  passed  since  the  first  foundation 
logs  were  laid  in  the  name  of  the  Hudson's  Bay  Com 
pany,  to  the  Company's  glory  and  profit.  It  had  been 
a  fort  then,  in  all  that  the  name  implies  throughout  the 
fur  country.  It  had  boasted  a  stockade,  a  brass  can 
non  wljich  commanded  the  great  gates  that  swung  open 
to  friendly  strangers  and  were  closed  sharply  to  poten 
tial  foes.  But  the  last  remnant  of  Pachugan's  glory 
had  gone  glimmering  down  the  corridors  of  time.  The 
Company  was  still  as  strong,  stronger  even  in  power 
more  sure  and  subtle  than  ever  lay  in  armed  retainers 
and  absolute  monopoly.  But  Fort  Pachugan  ha.d  be 
come  a  mere  collecting  station  for  the  lesser  furs,  a 
distributing  center  for  trade  goods  to  native  trappers. 
There  were  no  more  hostile  tribes.  The  Company  no 
longer  dealt  out  the  high  justice,  the  middle,  and  the 
low.  The  stockade  and  the  brass  cannon  were  tradi 
tions.  Pachugan  sprawled  on  the  bank  of  the  lake, 
open  to  all  comers,  a  dimming  landmark  of  the  old  days. 

What  folk  were  out  of  doors  bent  their  eyes  upon  the 
canoe.  The  factor  himself  rose  from  his  seat  on  the 
porch  and  came  down  to  have  speech  with  them. 
Thompson,  recognizing  authority,  made  known  his  name 
and  his  mission.  The  burly  Scot  shook  hands  with  him. 
They  walked  away  together,  up  to  the  factor's  house. 
On  the  threshold  the  Reverend  Wesley  paused  for  a 
backward  look,  drew  the  crumpled  linen  of  his  hand 
kerchief  across  his  moist  brow,  and  then  disappeared 


ao  BURNED    BRIDGES 

within.  Mike  Breyette  and  Donald  MacDonald  looked 
at  each  other  expressively.  Their  swarthy  faces  slowly 
expanded  in  a  broad  grin. 

In  the  North,  what  with  the  crisp  autumn,  the  long 
winter,  and  that  bleak,  uncertain  period  which  is  neither 
winter  nor  spring,  summer  —  as  we  know  it  in  softer 
lands  —  has  but  a  brief  span  to  endure.  But  Nature 
there  as  elsewhere  works  out  a  balance,  adheres  to  a 
certain  law  of  proportion.  What  Northern  summers 
lack  in  length  is  compensated  by  intensity.  When  the 
spring  floods  have  passed  and  the  warm  rains  follow 
through  lengthening  days  of  sun,  grass  and  flowers 
arise  with  magic  swiftness  from  a  wonderfully  fertile 
soil.  Trees  bud  and  leaf;  berries  form  hard  on  the 
blossoming.  Overnight,  as  it  were,  the  woods  and 
meadows,  the  river  flats  and  the  higher  rolling  country, 
become  transformed.  And  when  August  passes  in  a 
welter  of  flies  and  heat  and  thunderstorms,  the  North  is 
ready  once  more  for  the  frosty  segment  of  its  seasonal 
round.  July  and  August  are  hot  months  in  the  high 
latitudes.  For  six  weeks  or  thereabouts  the  bottom 
lands  of  the  Peace  and  the  Athabasca  can  hold  their 
own  with  the  steaming  tropics.  After  that  —  well,  this 
has  to  do  in  part  with  "  after  that."  For  it  was  in  late 
July  when  Wesley  Thompson  touched  at  Fort  Pachu- 
gan,  a  Bible  in  his  pocket,  a  few  hundred  pounds  of 
supplies  in  Mike  Breyette's  canoe,  certain  aspirations 
of  spiritual  labor  in  his  head,  and  little  other  equip 
ment  to  guide  and  succor  him  in  that  huge,  scantily 
peopled  territory  which  his  superiors  had  chosen  as  the 
field  for  his  labors. 


THE    MAN    AND    HIS    MISSION         21 

When  Breyette  and  MacDonald  had  so  bestowed  the 
canoe  that  the  diligently  foraging  dogs  of  the  post 
could  not  take  toll  of  their  supplies  they  also  hied  them 
up  to  the  cluster  of  log  cabins  ranging  about  the  Com 
pany  store  and  factor's  quarters.  They  were  on  tol 
erably  familiar  ground.  First  they  made  for  the  cabin 
of  Dougal  MacPhee,  an  ancient  servitor  of  the  Com 
pany  and  a  distant  relative  of  Breyette's,  for  whom 
they  had  a  gift  of  tobacco.  Old  Dougal  welcomed  them 
laconically,  without  stirring  from  his  seat  in  the  shade. 
He  sucked  at  an  old  clay  pipe.  His  half-breed  woman, 
as  wrinkled  and  time  worn  as  himself,  squatted  on  the 
earth  sewing  moccasins.  Old  Dougal  turned  his  thumb 
toward  a  bench  and  bade  them  be  seated. 

"  It's  a  bit  war-rm,"  MacDonald  opined,  by  way  of 
opening  the  conversation. 

"  What  else  wad  it  be  this  time  o'  year?  "  Dougal 
rumbled.  "  Tell  us  somethin'  we  dinna  ken.  Wha's 
yon  cam'  wi'  ye?  " 

"  Man,  but  the  heat  makes  ye  crabbed,"  MacDonald 
returned  with  naive  candor.  "  Yon's  a  meenister." 

"  Bagosh,  yes,"  Breyette  chuckled.  "  Dat  ees  de 
man  of  God  w'at  you  see.  He's  com'  for  save  soul  hon' 
de  Eenjun  hon'  Lone  Moose.  Bagosh,  we're  have  som' 
fon  weet  heem  dees  treep." 

"  He's  a  loon,"  MacDonald  paused  with  a  forefinger 
in  the  bowl  of  his  pipe.  "  He  doesna  know  a  moccasin 
from  a  snowshoe,  scarce.  I'd  like  tae  be  aboot  when 
'tis  forty  below  —  an'  gettin'  colder.  I'm  thinkin'  he'd 
relish  a  taste  o'  hell-fire  then,  for  a  change  —  eh, 
Mike?" 


22  BURNED    BRIDGES 

The  two  of  them  went  off  into  a  fit  of  silent  laugh 
ter,  for  the  abysmal  ignorance  of  Wesley  Thompson 
concerning  practical  things,  his  awkward  length  of 
body,  his  student's  pallor  that  the  Athabasca  sun  had 
played  such  havoc  with,  his  blue  eyes  that  looked  so 
often  with  trepidation  or  amazement  on  the  common 
places  of  their  world,  his  general  incapacity  and  blind 
belief  that  an  all-wise  Providence  would  personally  in 
tervene  to  make  things  go  right  when  they  went  wrong, 
had  not  struck  these  two  hardy  children  of  the  solitudes 
as  bther  than  a  side-splitting  joke. 

"  He  rises  i'  the  mornin',"  MacDonald  continued, 
"  win'  a  word  frae  the  Book  aboot  the  Lord  providin', 
an'  he'd  starve  if  nabody  was  by  t'  cook  his  meal.  He 
canna  build  a  fire  wi'oot  scorchin'  his  fingers.  He  lays 
hold  o'  a  paddle  like  a  three  months'  babby.  He  bids 
ye  pit  yer  trust  i'  the  Lord,  an'  himself  rises  up  wi'  a 
start  every  time  a  wolf  raises  the  long  howl  at  nicht. 
I  didna  believe  there  was  ever  sae  helpless  a  creature. 
An'  for  a'  that  he's  the  laddie  that's  here  tae  show  the 
heathen  —  thae  puir,  sinfu'  heathen,  mind  ye  —  how 
tae  find  grace.  No  that  he's  any  doot  aboot  bein' 
equal  tae  the  job.  For  a'  that  he's  nigh  helpless  i'  the 
woods  he  was  forever  ying-yangin'  at  me  an'  Mike  for 
what  he  ca's  sinfu'  pride  in  oor  ain'  persons.  I've  a 
notion  that  if  yon  had  a  bit  o'  that  same  sinfu'  pride  he'd 
be  the  better  able  tae  make  his  way." 

Old  MacPhee  took  the  blackened  clay  pipe  from  his 
mouth  and  puffed  a  blue  spiral  into  the  dead,  sultry 
air.  A  sour  expression  gathered  about  his  withered 
lips. 


THE    MAN    AND    HIS    MISSION         23 

"  Dinna  gibe  at  yon  puir  mortal,"  he  rebuked.  "  Ye 
canna  keep  fools  frae  wanderin'.  I've  seen  manny's  the 
man  like  him.  It's  likely  that  once  he's  had  a  fair  taste 
o'  the  North  he'll  be  less  a  saint  an'  more  a  man." 

The  afternoon  was  far  spent  when  they  landed. 
Breyette  and  MacDonald  made  themselves  comfortable 
with  their  backs  against  the  wall.  Supper  came  and 
was  eaten.  Evening  closed  in.  The  bold,  scorching 
stare  of  the  sun  faded.  Little  cooling  breezes  fluttered 
along  the  lake  shore,  banishing  the  last  trace  of  that 
brassy  heat.  Men  who  had  lounged  indoors,  or  against 
shaded  walls  roamed  about,  and  half-breed  women  chat 
tered  in  voluble  gutturals  back  and  forth  between  the 
cabins. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE    DESERTED    CABIN 

IN  the  factor's  comfortable  quarters  Mr.  Thompson 
sat  down  to  the  first  meal  he  had  thoroughly  relished 
in  two  weeks.  A  corner  of  the  verandah  was  screened 
off  with  wire  netting.  Outside  that  barrier  mosquitoes 
and  sandflies  buzzed  and  swarmed  in  futile  activity. 
Within  stood  an  easy  chair  or  two  and  a  small  table 
which  was  presently  spread  with  a  linen  cloth,  set  with 
porcelain  dishes,  and  garnished  with  silverware.  All 
the  way  down  the  Athabasca  Thompson  had  found  every 
meal  beset  with  exasperating  difficulties,  fruitful  of 
things  that  offended  both  his  stomach  and  his  sense  of 
fitness.  He  had  not  been  able  to  accommodate  himself 
to  the  necessity  of  juggling  a  tin  plate  beside  a  camp- 
fire,  of  eating  with  one  hand  and  fending  off  flies  with 
the  other.  Also  he  objected  to  grains  of  sand  and 
particles  of  ash  and  charred  wood  being  incorporated 
with  bread  and  meat.  Neither  Breyette  nor  MacDon- 
ald  seemed  to  mind.  But  Thompson  had  never  learned 
to  adapt  himself  to  conditions  that  were  unavoidable. 
Pitchforked  into  a  comparatively  primitive  mode  of 
existence  and  transportation  his  first  reaction  to  it 
took  the  form  of  offended  resentment.  There  were 
times  when  he  forgot  why  he  was  there,  enduring  these 
things.  After  such  a  lapse  he  prayed  for  guidance  and 
iA  patient  heart. 


THE    DESERTED    CABIN  25 

These  creature  comforts  now  at  hand  were  in  a  meas 
ure  what  he  had  been  accustomed  to,  what  he  had,  with 
no  thought  on  the  matter,  taken  as  the  accepted  and 
usual  order  of  things,  save  that  his  needs  had  been 
administered  by  two  prim  and  elderly  spinster  aunts 
instead  of  a  black-browed  Scotchman  and  a  half-breed 
servant  girl. 

Thompson  sat  back  after  his  supper,  fanning  himself 
with  an  ancient  newspaper,  for  the  day's  heat  still  lin 
gered.  Across  the  table  on  which  he  rested  an  elbow 
MacLeod,  bearded,  aggressive,  capable,  regarded  his 
guest  with  half-contemptuous  pity  under  cover  of  the 
gathering  dusk.  MacLeod  smoked  a  pipe.  Thomp 
son  chewed  the  cud  of  reflection. 

"  And  so,"  the  factor  began  suddenly,  "  ye  are  a 
missionary  to  the  Lone  Moose  Crees.  It  will  be  a 
thankless  task;  a  tougher  one  nor  I'd  care  to  tackle. 
I  ha'  seen  the  job  undertaken  before  by  folk  who  — 
beggin'  your  pardon  —  ha'  little  conception  of  the 
country,  the  people  in  it,  or  the  needs  of  either.  Ye'll 
find  the  Cree  has  more  concern  for  meat  an'  clothes, 
for  traps  an'  powder,  than  he  has  for  his  soul.  Ye'll 
understand  this  better  when  ye  ha'  more  experience  in 
the  North.  Indeed,  it's  no  impossible  ye  might  come 
to  the  same  way  of  thinkin'  in  time." 

The  dusk  hid  the  shocked  expression  that  gathered 
on  Thompson's  face. 

"  *  What  shall  it  profit  a  man  to  gain  the  whole  world 
if  he  knoweth  not  God?  '  "  he  quoted  gravely.  "  The 
priests  of  the  Catholic  church  have  long  carried  on  mis 
sionary  work  among  these  tribes.  We  of  the  Protes- 


26  BURNED    BRIDGES 

tant  faith  would  be  lacking  if  we  did  not  try  to  extend 
our  field,  if  we  made  no  effort  to  bear  light  into  the 
dark  places.  Man's  spiritual  need  is  always  greater 
than  any  material  need  can  ever  be.  I  hardly  expect 
to  accomplish  a  great  deal  at  first.  But  the  work  will 
grow." 

"  I  see,  I  see,"  MacLeod  chuckled  dryly.  "  It's 
partly  a  matter  of  the  Methodist  Church  tryin*  to  com 
pete  with  the  fathers,  eh?  Well,  I  am  no  what  ye'd 
call  devout.  I  ha*  had  much  experience  wi'  these  red 
folk,  an*  them  that's  both  red  an'  white.  An*  I  dinna 
agree  with  ye  aboot  their  spec  ritual  needs.  I  think  ye 
sky-pilots  would  do  better  to  leave  them  to  their  ain 
gods,  such  as  they  are.  Man,  do  ye  know  that  it's  bet 
ter  than  a  century  since  the  fathers  began  their  mission 
ary  labors?  A  hundred  years  of  teachin'  an'  preachin'. 
The  sum  of  it  a*  is  next  to  nothin'  —  an'  naebody  knows 
that  better  than  the  same  fathers.  They're  wise,  keen- 
sighted  men,  too.  What  good  they  do  they  do  in  a 
material  way.  If  men  like  ye  came  here  wi'  any  certi 
tude  of  lightenin*  the  struggle  for  existence  —  but  ye 
canna  do  that;  or  at  least  ye  dinna  do  that.  Ye'll 
find  that  neither  red  men  nor  white  ha'  time  or  inclina 
tion  to  praise  the  Lord  an'  his  grace  an'  bounty  when 
their  life's  one  long  struggle  wi'  hardships  an'  adver 
sity.  The  God  ye  offer  them  disna  mitigate  these 
things.  Forbye  that,  the  Indian  disna  want  to  be 
Christianized.  When  ye  come  to  a  determination  of 
abstract  qualities,  his  pagan  beliefs  are  as  good  for  him 
as  the  God  of  the  Bible.  What  right  ha'  we  to  cram 
oor  speeritual  dogmas  doon  his  gullet?  " 


THE    DESERTED    CABIN  27 

MacLeod  applied  himself  to  relighting  his  pipe. 
Thompson  gathered  himself  together.  He  was  momen 
tarily  stricken  with  speechless  amazement.  He  knew 
there  were  such  things  as  critical  unbelievers,  but  he  had 
never  encountered  one  in  the  flesh.  His  life  had  been 
too  excellently  supervised  and  directed  in  youth  by  the 
spinster  aunts.  Nor  does  materialistic  philosophy 
flourish  in  a  theological  seminary.  Young  men  in  train 
ing  for  the  ministry  are  taught  to  strangle  doubt  when 
ever  it  rears  its  horrid  head,  to  see  only  with  the  single 
eye  of  faith. 

Neither  the  bitterness  of  experience  nor  a  natural 
gentleness  of  spirit  had  ever  permitted  Thompson  to 
know  the  beauty  and  wisdom  of  tolerance.  Whosoever 
disputed  his  creed  and  his  consecrated  purpose  must  be 
in  error.  The  evangelical  spirit  glowed  within  him 
when  he  faced  the  factor  across  the  little  table.  Fig 
uratively  speaking  he  cleared  for  action.  His  host, 
being  a  hard-headed  son  of  a  disputatious  race,  met  him 
more  than  half-way.  As  a  result  midnight  found  them 
still  wordily  engaged,  one  maintaining  with  emotional 
fervor  that  man's  spiritual  welfare  was  the  end  and  aim 
of  human  existence ;  the  other  as  outspoken  —  if  more 
calmly  and  critically  so  —  in  his  assertion  that  a  tooth- 
and-toenail  struggle  for  existence  left  no  room  in  any 
rational  man's  life  for  the  manner  of  religion  set  forth 
in  general  by  churches  and  churchmen.  The  edge  of 
acrimony  crept  into  the  argument. 

"  The  Lord  said,  *  Leave  all  thou  hast  and  follow 
me,'  "  Thompson  declared.  "  My  dear  sir,  you  cannot 
dispute  — " 


28  BURNED    BRIDGES 

"  Ay,  but  yon  word  was  said  eighteen  hundred  years 
past,"  MacLeod  interrupted.  "  Since  which  day  there's 
been  a  fair  rate  o'  progress  in  man's  knowledge  of  him 
self  an'  his  needs.  The  Biblical  meeracles  in  the  way  o' 
provender  dinna  happen  nowadays  —  although  some 
ither  modern  commonplaces  would  partake  o'  the  meer- 
aculous  if  we  didna  have  a  rational  knowledge  of  their 
process.  Men  are  no  fed  wi'  loaves  and  fishes  until  they 
themselves  ha'  first  gotten  the  loaves  an'  the  fish.  At 
least,  it  disna  so  happen  i'  the  Pachugan  deestreect. 
It's  much  the  same  the  world  over,  but  up  here  especially 
ye'll  find  that  the  problem  o'  subsistence  is  first  an' 
foremost,  an'  excludes  a'  else  till  it's  solved." 

With  this  MacLeod,  weary  of  an  unprofitable  con 
troversy,  arose,  took  up  a  candle  and  showed  his  scan 
dalized  guest  the  way  to  bed. 

Thompson  was  full  of  a  willingness  to  revive  the 
argument  when  he  was  roused  for  breakfast  at  sunrise. 
But  MacLeod  had  said  his  say.  He  abhorred  vain 
repetition.  Since  it  takes  two  to  keep  an  argument 
going,  Thompson's  beginning  was  but  the  beginning  of 
a  monologue  which  presently  died  weakly  of  inatten 
tion.  When  he  gave  over  trying  to  inject  a  theological 
motif  into  the  conversation,  he  found  MacLeod  respon 
sive  enough.  The  factor  touched  upon  native  customs, 
upon  the  fur  trade,  upon  the  vast  and  unexploited  re 
sources  of  the  North,  all  of  which  was  more  or  less 
hazy  to  Thompson. 

His  men  had  intimated  an  early  start.  Their  jour 
ney  down  the  Athabasca  had  impressed  Thompson  with 
the  wisdom  of  that.  Only  so  could  they  escape  the 


THE    DESERTED    CABIN  29 

brazen  heat  of  the  sun,  and  still  accomplish  a  fair  day's 
travel.  So  he  rose  immediately  from  the  breakfast 
table,  when  he  saw  Breyette  and  MacDonald  standing 
by  the  canoe  waiting  for  him.  MacLeod  halted  him  on 
the  verandah  steps  to  give  a  brusque  last  word  of 
counsel. 

"  Look  ye,  Mr.  Thompson,"  he  said.  "  An  honest 
bit  of  advice  will  do  ye  no  harm.  Ye're  startin'  out  wi' 
a  brave  vision  o'  doin'  a  great  good;  of  lettin'  a  flood 
o'  light  into  dark  places.  Speakin'  out  my  ain  first 
hand  experience  ye'll  be  fairly  disappointed,  because 
ye'll  accomplish  nought  that's  in  yer  mind.  Ye'll  have 
no  trouble  wi'  the  Crees.  If  ye  remain  among  them  long 
enough  to  mak'  them  understand  yer  talk  an'  objects 
they'll  listen  or  not  as  they  feel  inclined.  They're  a 
simple,  law-abidin'  folk.  But  there's  a  white  man  at 
Lone  Moose  that  ye'll  do  well  to  cultivate  wi'  discretion. 
He's  a  man  o'  positive  character,  and  scholarly  beyond 
what  ye'd  imagine.  When  ye  meet  him,  dinna  be  sanc 
timonious.  His  philosophy  '11  no  gibe  wi'  your  religion, 
an'  if  ye  attempt  to  impose  a  meenesterial  attitude  on 
him,  it's  no  beyond  possibility  he'd  flare  up  an'  do  ye 
bodily  damage.  I  know  him.  If  ye  meet  him  man  to 
man,  ye'll  find  he'll  meet  ye  half-way  in  everything  but 
theology.  He'll  be  the  sort  of  friend  ye'll  need  at 
Lone  Moose.  But  dinna  wave  the  Cloth  in  his  face. 
For  some  reason  that's  to  him  like  the  proverbial  red 
rag  tae  a  bull.  The  last  missionary  tae  Long  Moose 
cam'  awa  wi'  a  lovely  pair  o'  black  eyes  Sam  Carr 
bestowed  on  him.  I'm  forewarnin'  ye  for  yer  ain  good. 
Ye  can  decry  material  benefits  a*  ye  like,  but  it'll  be  a 


30  BURNED    BRIDGES 

decided  benefit  if  ye  ha'  Sam  Carr  for  a  friendly  neigh 
bor  at  Lone  Moose." 

"  I  don't  deliberately  seek  religious  controversy  with 
any  one,"  Thompson  replied  rather  stiffly.  "  I  have 
been  sent  by  the  Church  to  do  what  good  I  am  able. 
That  should  not  offend  Mr.  Carr,  or  any  man." 

"  Nor  will  it,"  MacLeod  returned.  Then  he  added 
dryly,  "  It  a'  depends,  as  ye  may  discover,  on  the 
interpretation  others  put  on  your  method  o'  doin'  good. 
However,  I  wish  ye  luck.  Stop  in  whenever  ye  happen 
along  this  way." 

"  I  thank  you,  sir,"  Thompson  smiled,  "both  for  your 
hospitality,  and  your  advice." 

They  shook  hands.  Thompson  strode  to  the  beach. 
Mike  Breyette  and  Donald  MacDonald  stood  bare 
footed  in  the  shallow  water.  When  Thompson  had 
stepped  awkwardly  aboard  and  seated  himself  amid 
ships,  they  lifted  on  the  canoe  and  slid  it  gently  off  the 
shingle,  leaped  to  their  places  fore  and  aft  and  gave 
way.  A  hundred  yards  off  shore  they  lifted  the  drip 
ping  paddles  in  mute  adieu  to  old  Donald  McPhee, 
smoking  his  pipe  at  the  gable  end  of  his  cabin.  Mac 
Leod  watched  the  gray  canoe  slip  past  the  first  point. 
When  it  vanished  beyond  that  he  turned  back  into  his 
quarters  with  a  shrug  of  his  burly  shoulders,  and  a  few 
unintelligible  phrases  muttered  under  his  breath. 

Lone  Moose  Creek  emptied  into  Lake  Athabasca  some 
forty  miles  east  of  Fort  Pachugan.  The  village  of 
Lone  Moose  lay  another  twenty-five  miles  or  so  up  the 
stream.  Thompson's  canoemen  carried  with  them  a 
rag  of  a  sail.  This  they  hoisted  to  a  fair  wind  that 


THE    DESERTED    CABIN  31 

held  through  the  morning  hours.  Between  that  and 
steady  paddling  they  made  the  creek  mouth  by  sun 
down.  There  they  lay  overnight  on  a  jutting  sandbar 
where  the  mosquitoes  plagued  them  less  than  on  the 
brushy  shore. 

At  dawn  they  pushed  into  the  sinuous  channel  of 
Lone  Moose,  breasting  its  slow  current  with  steady 
strokes,  startling  flocks  of  waterfowl  at  every  bend, 
gliding  hour  after  hour  along  this  shadowy  waterway 
that  split  the  hushed  reaches  of  the  woods.  It  was  very 
still  and  very  somber  and  a  little  uncanny.  The  creek 
was  but  a  thread  in  that  illimitable  forest  which  pressed 
so  close  on  either  hand.  The  sun  at  high  noon  could 
not  dissipate  the  shadows  that  lurked  among  the  close- 
ranked  trees;  it  touched  the  earth  and  the  creek  with 
patches  and  streaks  of  yellow  at  rare  intervals  and  left 
untouched  the  obscurity  where  the  rabbits  and  the  fur- 
bearing  animals  and  all  the  wild  life  of  the  forest  went 
furtively  about  its  business.  Once  they  startled  a  cow 
moose  and  her  calf  knee-deep  in  a  shallow.  The  crash 
of  their  hurried  retreat  rose  like  a  blare  of  brass  horns 
cutting  discordantly  into  the  piping  of  a  flute.  But  it 
died  as  quickly  as  it  had  risen.  Even  the  beasts  bowed 
before  the  invisible  altars  of  silence. 

About  four  in  the  afternoon  Mike  Breyette  turned 
the  nose  of  the  canoe  sharply  into  the  bank. 

The  level  of  the  forest  floor  lifted  ten  feet  above 
Thompson's  head  so  that  he  could  see  nothing  beyond 
the  earthy  rim  save  the  tops  of  trees.  He  kept  his  seat 
while  Mike  tied  the  bow  to  a  birch  trunk  with  a  bit  of 
rope.  He  knew  that  they  expected  to  land  him  at  his 


32  BURNED    BRIDGES 

destination  before  evening  fell.  This  did  not  impress 
him  as  a  destination.  He  did  not  know  what  Lone 
Moose  would  be  like.  The  immensity  of  the  North  had 
left  him  rather  incredulous.  Nothing  in  the  North, 
animate  or  inanimate,  corresponded  ever  so  little  to  his 
preconceived  notions  of  what  it  would  be  like.  His 
ideas  of  the  natives  had  been  tinctured  with  the  flavor 
of  Hiawatha  and  certain  Leatherstocking  tales  which 
he  had  read  with  a  sense  of  guilt  when  a  youngster. 
He  had  really  started  out  with  the  impression  that  Lone 
Moose  was  a  collection  of  huts  and  tents  about  a  log 
church  and  a  missionary  house.  The  people  would  be 
simple  and  high-minded,  tillers  of  the  soil  in  summer, 
trappers  of  fur  in  winter,  humble  seekers  after  the 
Light  he  was  bringing.  But  he  was  not  a  fool,  and  he 
had  been  compelled  to  forego  that  illusion.  Then  he 
had  surmised  that  Lone  Moose  might  be  a  replica  of 
Fort  Pachugan.  MacLeod  had  partly  disabused  his 
mind  of  that. 

But  he  still  could  not  keep  out  of  his  mind's  eye  a 
somewhat  hazy  picture  of  Lone  Moose  as  a  group  of 
houses  on  the  bank  of  a  stream,  with  Indians  and 
breeds  —  no  matter  how  dirty  and  unkempt  —  going 
impassively  about  their  business,  an  organized  com 
munity,  however  rude.  Here  he  saw  nothing  save  the 
enfolding  forest  he  had  been  passing  through  since 
dawn.  He  scarcely  troubled  to  ask  himself  why  they 
had  stopped.  Breyette  and  MacDonald  were  given 
to  casual  haltings.  He  sat  in  irritable  discomfort 
brushing  aside  the  hordes  of  mosquitoes  that  rose  up 
from  the  weedy  brink  and  the  shore  thickets  to  assail 


THE    DESERTED    CABIN  33 

his  tender  skin.  He  did  not  notice  that  MacDonald 
was  waiting  for  him  to  move.  Mike  Breyette  looked 
down  on  him  from  the  top  of  the  bank. 

"  Well,  we  here,  M'sieu  Thompson,"  he  said. 

"What?"  Thompson  roused  himself.  "Here? 
Where  is  the  village?  " 

Breyette  waved  a  hand  upstream. 

"  She's  'roun'  de  nex'  bend,"  said  he.  "  Two-three 
hundred  yard.  Dees  w'ere  de  meeshonaire  have  hees 
cabanne." 

Thompson  could  not  doubt  Breyette's  statement. 
He  recalled  now  that  Mike  had  once  told  him  the  mis 
sion  quarters  were  built  a  little  apart  from  the  village. 
But  he  peered  up  through  the  screen  of  birch  and 
willow  with  a  swift  wave  of  misgiving.  The  forest 
enclosed  him  like  the  blank  walls  of  a  cell.  He  shrank 
from  it  as  a  sensitive  nature  shrinks  from  the  melan 
choly  suggestiveness  of  an  open  grave,  and  he  could  not 
have  told  why  he  felt  that  strange  form  of  depression. 
He  was  wholly  unfamiliar  with  any  form  of  introspec 
tive  inquiry,  any  analysis  of  a  mental  state.  He  had 
never  held  sad  intellectual  inquest  over  a  dead  hope,  nor 
groped  blindly  for  a  ray  of  light  in  the  inky  blackness 
of  a  soul's  despair. 

Nevertheless,  he  was  conscious  that  he  felt  very  much 
as  he  might  have  felt  if,  for  instance,  his  guides  had 
stopped  anywhere  in  those  somber  woods  and  without 
rhyme  or  reason  set  him  and  his  goods  ashore  and 
abandoned  him  forthwith.  And  when  he  crawled  over 
the  bow  of  the  canoe  and  ascended  the  short,  steep  bank 
to  a  place  beside  Mike  Breyette,  this  peculiar  sense  of 


34  BURNED    BRIDGES 

being  forsaken  grew,  if  anything,  more  acute,  more 
appalling. 

They  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  bank,  taking  a  recon 
naissance,  so  to  speak.  The  forest  flowed  about  them 
like  a  sea.  On  Thompson's  left  hand  it  seemed  to  thin 
a  trifle,  giving  a  faint  suggestion  of  open  areas  beyond. 
Beginning  where  they  stood,  some  time  in  past  years  a 
square  place  had  been  slashed  out  of  the  timber,  trees 
felled  and  partly  burned,  the  stumps  still  standing  and 
the  charred  trunks  lying  all  askew  as  they  fell.  The 
unlovely  confusion  of  the  uncompleted  task  was  some 
what  concealed  by  a  rank  growth  of  weeds  and  grass. 
This  half-hearted  attack  upon  the  forest  had  let  the 
sunlight  in.  It  blazed  full  upon  a  cabin  in  the  center 
pf  the  clearing,  a  square,  squat  structure  of  logs  with 
a  roof  of  poles  and  dirt.  A  door  and  a  window  faced 
the  creek,  a  window  of  tiny  panes,  a  door  that  stood 
partly  open,  sagging  forlornly  upon  its  hinges. 

"  Is  that  the  house?  "  Thompson  asked.  It  seemed 
to  him  scarcely  credible.  He  suspected  his  guides,  as 
he  had  before  suspected  them,  of  some  rude  jest  at  his 
expense. 

'*  Dat's  heem,"  Breyette  answered.  "  Let's  tak'  leetle 
more  close  look  on  heem." 

Thompson  did  not  miss  the  faint  note  of  commis 
eration  in  the  half-breed's  voice.  It  stung  him  a  little, 
nearly  made  him  disregard  the  spirit  of  abnegation  he 
had  been  taught  was  a  Christian's  duty  in  his  Master's 
service.  He  closed  his  lips  on  an  impulsive  protest 
against  that  barren  unlovely  spot,  and  stiffened  his 
shoulders. 


THE    DESERTED    CABIN  35 

"  I  understand  it  has  not  been  occupied  for  some 
time,"  he  said  as  they  moved  toward  the  cabin. 

But  even  forewarned  as  he  was  his  heart  sank  a  few 
degrees  nearer  to  his  square-toed  shoes  when  he  stepped 
over  the  threshold  and  looked  about.  Little,  forgotten 
things  recurred  to  him,  matters  touched  upon  lightly, 
airily,  by  the  deacons  and  elders  of  the  Board  of  Mis 
sions  when  his  appointment  was  made.  He  recalled 
hearing  of  a  letter  in  which  his  predecessor  had  re 
nounced  thai  particular  field  and  the  ministry  together, 
with  what  to  Thompson  had  seemed  the  blasphemous 
statement  that  the  North  was  no  place  for  either  God 
or  man. 

The  place  was  foul  with  dirt  and  cobwebs,  full  of  a 
musty  odor.  The  swallows  had  nested  along  the  ridge 
pole.  They  fluttered  out  of  the  door,  chattering 
protest  against  the  invasion.  Rat  nests  littered  the 
corners  and  the  brown  rodents  scuttled  out  with  alarmed 
squeaks.  The  floor  was  of  logs  roughly  hewn  to  flat 
ness.  Upon  four  blocks  stood  a  rusty  cookstove.  A 
few  battered,  smoke-blackened  pots  and  pans  stood  on  a 
shelf  and  hung  upon  nails  driven  in  the  walls.  A  rough 
bedstead  of  peeled  spruce  poles  stood  in  a  corner.  The 
remains  of  a  bedtick  moldered  on  the  slats,  its  grass 
stuffing  given  over  to  the  nests  of  the  birds  and  rodents. 

It  was  so  utterly  and  dishearteningly  foreign  to  the 
orderly  arrangement,  the  meticulous  neatness  of  the 
home  wherein  Thompson  had  grown  to  young  manhood 
under  the  tutelage  of  the  prim  spinsters  that  he  could 
scarcely  accept  as  a  reality  that  this,  henceforth,  was 
to  be  his  abode. 


36  BURNED    BRIDGES 

He  could  only  stand,  with  a  feeling  in  his  throat  that 
was  new  in  his  experience  of  emotions,  staring  in  dismay 
at  this  forlorn  habitation  abandoned  to  wind  and 
weather,  to  the  rats  and  the  birds. 


CHAPTER  IV 

IN  WHICH  MR.  THOMPSON  BEGINS  TO  WONDEE  PAINFULLY 

To  Breyette  and  MacDonald  that  forlorn  cabin  was 
after  all  nothing  new  or  disheartening  in  their  experi 
ence.  They  knew  how  a  deserted  house  goes  to  rack 
and  ruin.  They  knew  also  how  to  restore  such  an 
abandoned  place  to  a  measure  of  its  original  homeli 
ness.  And  neither  the  spectacle  of  the  one  nor  the 
labor  of  the  other  gave  them  any  qualms.  They  were 
practical-minded  men  to  whom  musty,  forsaken  cabins, 
isolation,  the  hollow  emptiness  of  the  North,  the  sultry 
heat  of  the  brief  summer,  the  flies,  the  deep  snows  and 
iron  frosts  of  the  long  winter,  were  a  part  of  their  life, 
the  only  life  they  knew. 

But  they  were  not  wholly  devoid  of  sentiment  and 
perception.  They  recognized  in  Thompson  a  lively 
susceptibility  to  certain  disagreeable  things  which  they 
accepted  as  a  matter  of  course.  They  saw  that  he  was 
rather  less  capable  of  coping  with  such  a  situation  than 
a  ten-year-old  native  boy,  that  a  dirty  cabin  in  a  lonely 
clearing  made  him  stand  aghast.  And  so  —  although 
their  bargain  with  him  was  closed  when  they  deposited 
him  and  his  goods  on  the  bank  of  Lone  Moose  —  they 
set  to  work  with  energy  to  renovate  his  forlorn-looking 
abode. 


38  BURNED    BRIDGES 

They  made  short  work  of  the  rats'  and  the  swallows' 
nests.  Breyette  quickly  fashioned  a  broom  of  fine  wil 
low  twigs,  brought  up  a  shovel  from  the  canoe,  and 
swept  and  shovelled  the  place  out.  MacDonald  mean 
while  cleared  the  weeds  and  grass  from  a  space  before 
the  cabin  and  burned  up  the  unseemly  refuse.  The 
stove  fulfilled  its  functions  perfectly  despite  the  red 
rust  of  disuse.  With  buckets  of  boiling  water  they 
flooded  and  drenched  the  floor  and  walls  till  the  interior 
was  as  fresh  and  clean  as  if  new  erected. 

The  place  was  habitable  by  sundown.  While  the  long 
northern  twilight  held  the  three  of  them  carried  up  the 
freight  that  burdened  the  canoe,  and  piled  it  in  one 
corner,  sacks  of  flour,  sides  of  bacon  and  salt  pork, 
boxes  of  dried  fruit,  the  miscellaneous  articles  with 
which  a  man  must  supply  himself  when  he  goes  into  the 
wilderness. 

That  night  they  slept  upon  a  meager  thickness  of 
blanket  spread  on  the  hard  floor. 

In  the  morning  Mike  went  to  work  again.  He  showed 
Thompson  how  to  arrange  a  mattress  of  hemlock 
boughs  on  the  bed  frame.  It  was  a  simple  enough 
makeshift,  soft  and  springy  when  Thompson  spread  his 
bedding  over  it.  Then  Mike  superintended  the  final 
disposition  of  his  supplies  so  that  there  would  be  some 
semblance  of  order  instead  of  an  indiscriminately  mixed 
pile  in  which  the  article  wanted  was  always  at  the  bot 
tom.  Incidentally  he  strove  to  impart  to  Thompson 
certain  rudimentary  principles  in  the  cooking  of  simple 
food.  He  illustrated  the  method  of  mixing  a  batch  of 
baking-powder  bread,  and  how  to  parboil  salt  pork 


MR.  THOMPSON  BEGINS  TO  WONDER     39 

before  cooking,  explained  to  him  the  otherwise  mys 
terious  expansion  of  rice  and  beans  and  dried  apples 
in  boiling  water,  all  of  which  Breyette  was  shrewd 
enough  to  realize  that  Thompson  knew  nothing  about. 
He  had  a  ready  ear  for  instructions  but  a  poor  under 
standing  of  these  matters.  So  Mike  reiterated  out  of 
his  experience  of  camp  cooking,  and  Thompson  tried 
to  remember. 

Meanwhile,  MacDonald,  who  had  vanished  into  the 
woods  with  a  rifle  in  his  hand  at  daybreak,  came  back 
about  noon  with  a  deer's  carcass  slung  on  his  sturdy 
back.  This,  after  it  was  skinned,  the  two  breeds  cut 
into  pieces  the  thickness  of  a  man's  wrist  and  as  long 
as  they  could  make  them,  rubbed  well  with  salt  and 
hung  on  a  stretched  line  in  the  sun.  The  purpose  and 
preparation  of  "  jerky  "  was  duly  elucidated  to  Thomp 
son;  rather  profitless  explanation,  for  he  had  no  rifle, 
nor  any  knowledge  whatever  in  the  use  of  firearms. 

"  Bagosh,  dat  man  Ah'm  wonder  w'ere  hees  raise," 
Mike  said  to  his  partner  once  when  Thompson  was  out 
of  earshot.  "  Hees  ask  more  damfool  question  een  ten 
minute  dan  a  man  hees  answer  een  free  day.  Wat 
hees  gon'  do  all  by  heemself  here  Ah  don5  know  'tall, 
Mac.  Bagosh,  no  !  " 

By  mid-afternoon  all  that  was  possible  in  the  way  of 
settling  their  man  had  been  accomplished,  even  to  a 
pile  of  firewood  sufficient  to  last  him  two  weeks.  Mac- 
Donald  contributed  that  after  one  brief  exhibition  of 
Thompson's  axemanship.  Short  of  remaining  on  the 
spot  like  a  pair  of  swarthy  guardian  angels  there  was 
no  further  help  they  could  give  him,  and  their  solicitude 


40  BURNED    BRIDGES 

did  not  run  to  that  beneficent  extreme.  And  so  about 
three  o'clock  Mike  Breyette  surveyed  the  orderly  cabin, 
the  pile  of  chopped  wood,  and  the  venison  drying  in  the 
sun,  and  said  briskly: 

"  Well,  M'sieu  Thompson,  Ah  theenk  we  go  show  you 
hon  Lone  Moose  village  now.  Dere's  one  w'ite  man  Ah 
don'  know  'tall.  But  der's  breed  familee  call  Lachlan, 
eef  she's  not  move  'way  somew'ere.  Dat  familee  she's 
talk  Henglish,  and  ver'  fond  of  preacher.  S'pose  we 
go  mak  leetle  veesit  hon  dem  Lachlan,  eh?  Ah  theenk 
us  two  feller  we're  gon*  heet  dat  water  weeth  de  paddle 
een  de  morneeng." 

A  man  does  not  easily  forego  habits  that  have  become 
second  nature.  Breyette  and  MacDonald  put  on  their 
dilapidated  hats,  filled  their  pipes,  and  were  ready  for 
anything  from  a  social  call  to  a  bear  hunt.  Thompson 
had  to  shave,  wash  up,  brush  his  hair,  put  on  a  tie  and 
collar,  which  article  of  dress  he  donned  without  a 
thought  that  the  North  was  utterly  devoid  of  laun 
dries,  that  he  would  soon  be  reduced  to  flannel  shirts 
which  he  must  wash  himself.  His  preparations  gave 
the  breeds  another  trick  of  his  to  grin  slyly  over.  But 
Thompson  was  preparing  himself  to  face  the  units  of 
his  future  congregation,  and  he  went  about  it  precisely 
as  he  would  have  gone  about  getting  ready  for  a  Con 
ference,  or  a  cup  of  tea  with  a  meeting  of  the  Ladies' 
Aid.  Eventually,  however,  the  three  set  out  across  the 
trunk-littered  clearing. 

The  thin  place  in  the  belt  of  timber  to  the  northward 
proved  barely  a  hundred  yards  deep.  On  the  farther 
side  the  brushy  edge  of  the  woods  gave  on  the  open 


MR.  THOMPSON  BEGINS  TO  WONDER     4I 

meadow  around  which  the  Lone  Moose  villagers  had 
built  their  cabins.  Thompson  swept  the  crescent  with 
a  glance,  taking  in  the  dozen  or  so  dwellings  huddling 
as  it  were  under  the  protecting  wings  of  the  forest,  and 
his  gaze  came  to  rest  on  the  more  impressive  habitation 
of  Sam  Carr. 

"  Dat's  white  man  married  hon  Enjun  woman,"  Brey- 
ette  responded  to  Thompson's  inquiry.  "  Ah  don' 
never  see  heem  maself.  Lachlan  she's  leev  over  there." 

Left  to  himself  Thompson  would  probably  have  gravi 
tated  first  to  a  man  of  his  own  blood,  even  though  he 
had  been  warned  to  approach  Carr  with  diplomacy. 
But  there  was  no  sign  of  life  about  the  Carr  place,  and 
his  men  were  headed  straight  for  their  objective,  walk 
ing  hurriedly  to  get  away  from  the  hungry  swarms  of 
mosquitoes  that  rose  out  of  the  grass.  Thompson  fol 
lowed  them.  Two  weeks  in  their  company,  with  a 
steadily  growing  consciousness  of  his  dependence  upon 
them,  had  inclined  him  to  follow  their  lead. 

They  found  Lachlan  at  home,  a  middle-aged  Scotch 
half-breed  with  a  house  full  of  sons  and  daughters 
ranging  from  the  age  of  four  to  twenty.  How  could 
they  all  be  housed  in  three  small  rooms  was  almost  the 
first  dubious  query  which  presented  itself  to  Thomp 
son.  His  mind,  to  his  great  perplexity,  seemed  to  turn 
more  upon  incongruities  than  upon  his  real  mission 
there.  That  is,  to  Thompson  they  seemed  incongru 
ities.  The  little  things  that  go  to  make  up  a  whole 
were  each  impinging  upon  him  with  a  force  he  could 
not  understand.  He  could  not,  for  instance,  tell  why 
he  thought  only  with  difficulty,  with  extreme  haziness, 


42  BURNED    BRIDGES 

of  the  great  good  he  desired  to  accomplish  at  Lone 
Moose,  and  found  his  attention  focussing  sharply  upon 
the  people,  their  manner  of  speech,  their  surroundings, 
even  upon  so  minor  a  detail  as  a  smudge  of  flour  upon 
the  hand  that  Mrs.  Lachlan  extended  to  him.  She  was 
a  fat,  dusky-skinned  woman,  apparently  regarding 
Thompson  with  a  feeling  akin  to  awe.  The  entire  fam 
ily,  which  numbered  at  least  nine  souls,  spoke  in  the 
broad  dialect  of  their  paternal  ancestors  from  the 
heather  country  overseas. 

Thompson  spent  an  hour  there,  an  hour  which  was 
far  from  conducive  to  a  cheerful  survey  of  the  field 
wherein  his  spiritual  labors  would  lie.  Aside  from  Sam 
Carr,  who  appeared  to  be  looked  upon  as  the  Nestor  of 
the  village,  the  Lachlans  were  the  only  persons  who 
either  spoke  or  understood  a  word  of  English.  And 
Thompson  found  himself  more  or  less  tongue-tied  with 
them,  unable  to  find  any  common  ground  of  intercourse. 
They  were  wholly  illiterate.  As  a  natural  consequence 
the  world  beyond  the  Athabasca  region  was  as  much  of 
an  unknown  quantity  to  them  as  the  North  had  been 
to  Thompson  before  he  set  foot  in  it  —  as  much  of  its 
needs  and  customs  were  yet,  for  that  matter.  The 
Lachlan  virtues  of  simplicity  and  kindliness  were  over 
cast  by  obvious  dirt  and  a  general  slackness.  In  so 
far  as  religion  went  if  they  were  —  as  Breyette  had 
stated  —  fond  of  preachers,  it  was  manifestly  because 
they  looked  upon  a  preacher  as  a  very  superior  sort  of 
person,  and  not  because  of  his  gospel  message. 

For  when  Mrs.  Lachlan  hospitably  brewed  a  cup  of 
tea  and  Thompson  took  the  opportunity  of  making  his 


MR.  THOMPSON  BEGINS  TO  WONDER     43 

customary  prayer  before  food  an  appeal  for  divine 
essence  to  be  showered  upon  these  poor  sinful  creatures 
of  earth,  the  Lachlan  family  rose  from  its  several  knees 
with  an  air  of  some  embarrassing  matter  well  past. 
And  they  hastened  to  converse  volubly  upon  the  weather 
and  the  mosquitoes  and  Sam  Carr's  garden  and  a  new 
canoe  that  Lachlan's  boys  were  building,  and  such 
homely  interests.  As  to  church  and  service  they  were 
utterly  dumb,  patently  unable  to  follow  Thompson's 
drift  when  he  spoke  of  those  things.  If  they  had  souls 
that  required  salvation  they  were  blissfully  unconscious 
of  the  fact. 

But  they  urged  him  to  come  again,  when  he  rose  to 
leave.  They  seemed  to  regard  him  as  a  very  great 
man,  whose  presence  among  them  was  an  honor,  even 
if  his  purposes  were  but  dimly  apprehended. 

The  three  walked  back  across  the  meadow,  Breyette 
and  MacDonald  chattering  lightly,  Thompson  rather 
preoccupied.  It  was  turning  out  so  different  from  what 
he  had  fondly  imagined  it  would  be.  He  had  envis 
aged  a  mode  of  living  and  a  manner  of  people,  a  fertile 
field  for  his  labors,  which  he  began  to  perceive  resent 
fully  could  never  have  existed  save  in  his  imagination. 
He  had  been  full  of  the  impression,  and  the  advice  and 
information  bestowed  upon  him  by  the  Board  of  Mis 
sions  had  served  to  heighten  the  impression,  that  in 
Lone  Moose  he  would  fill  a  crying  want.  And  he  was 
not  so  obtuse  as  to  fail  of  perceiving  that  no  want  of 
him  or  his  message  existed.  It  was  discouraging  to 
know  that  he  must  strive  mightily  to  awaken  a  sense 
of  need  before  he  could  begin  to  fulfill  his  appointed 


44  BURNED    BRIDGES 

function  of  showing  these  people  how  to  satisfy  that 
need. 

Apart  from  these  spiritual  perplexities  he  found  him 
self  troubled  over  practical  matters.  His  creed  of  blind 
trust  in  Providence  did  not  seem  so  sound  and  true. 
He  found  himself  dreading  the  hour  when  his  swarthy 
guides  would  leave  him  to  his  lonely  quarters.  He  be 
held  terrible  vistas  of  loneliness,  a  state  of  feeling  to 
which  he  had  always  been  a  stranger.  He  foresaw  a 
series  of  vain  struggles  over  that  rusty  cookstove.  It 
did  him  no  good  to  recall  that  he  had  been  told  in  the 
beginning  that  he  would  occupy  the  mission  quarters, 
that  he  must  provide  himself  with  ample  supplies  of 
food,  that  he  might  have  to  prepare  that  food  himself. 

His  mind  had  simply  been  unable  to  envisage  the 
sordid  reality  of  these  things  until  he  faced  them.  Now 
that  he  did  face  them  they  seemed  more  terrible  than 
they  really  were. 

Lying  wakeful  on  his  bed  that  night,  listening  to  the 
snoring  of  the  half-breeds  on  the  floor,  to  the  faint 
murmur  of  a  wind  that  stirred  the  drooping  boughs  of 
the  spruce,  he  reviewed  his  enthusiasms  and  his  tenuous 
plans  —  and  slipped  so  far  into  the  slough  of  despond 
as  to  call  himself  a  misguided  fool  for  rearing  so  fine 
a  structure  of  dreams  upon  so  slender  a  foundation  as 
this  appointment  to  a  mission  in  the  outlying  places. 
He  blamed  the  Board  of  Missions.  Obviously  that 
august  circle  of  middle-aged  and  worthy  gentlemen 
were  sadly  ignorant  of  the  North. 

Whereupon,  recognizing  the  trend  of  his  thought, 
the  Reverend  Wesley  Thompson  turned  upon  himself 


MR.  THOMPSON  BEGINS  TO  WONDER     45 

with  a  bitter  accusation  of  self-seeking,  and  besought 
earnestly  the  gift  of  ah  humble  spirit  from  Above. 

But  the  deadly  pin-points  of  discontent  and  discour 
agement  were  still  pricking  him  when  he  fell  asleep. 


CHAPTER  V 

FUBTHEB    ACQUAINTANCE 

MIKE  BREYETTE  took  a  last  look  over  his  shoulder  as 
the  current  and  the  thrust  of  two  paddles  carried  the 
canoe  around  the  first  bend.  Thompson  stood  on  the 
bank,  watching  them  go. 

"  Bagosh,  dat  man  hees  gon'  have  dam  toff  time,  Ah 
theenk,"  Breyette  voiced  his  conviction.  "  Feller  lak 
heem  got  no  beesness  for  be  here  'tall." 

"  He  didna  have  tae  come  here,"  MacDonald  an 
swered  carelessly.  "  An'  he  disna  have  tae  stay." 

"  Oh,  sure,  Ah  know  dat,  me,"  Mike  agreed.  "  All 
same  hees  feel  bad." 

Which  was  a  correct,  if  brief,  estimate  of  Mr. 
Thompson's  emotions  as  he  stood  on  the  bank  watching 
the  gray  canoe  slip  silently  out  of  his  ken.  That  gave 
him  a  keener  pang,  a  more  complete  sense  of  loss,  than  he 
had  ever  suffered  at  parting  with  any  one  or  anything. 
It  was  to  him  like  taking  a  last  look  before  a  leap  in 
the  dark.  Thrown  entirely  upon  his  own  resources  he 
felt  wholly  inadequate,  found  his  breast  filled  with  in 
comprehensible  misgivings.  The  work  he  had  come 
there  to  do  seemed  to  have  lost  much  of  its  force  as  a 
motive,  as  an  inspiration.  He  felt  himself  —  so  far  as 
his  mission  to  Lone  Moose  was  concerned  —  in  the 


FURTHER    ACQUAINTANCE  47 

anomalous  position  of  one  compelled  to  make  bricks 
without  straw. 

He  was,  in  a  word,  suffering  an  acute  attack  of 
loneliness. 

That  was  why  the  empty  space  of  the  clearing  af 
fected  him  with  a  physical  shrinking,  why  the  neatly 
arranged  interior  of  his  cabin  seemed  hollow,  aban 
doned,  terribly  dispiriting.  He  longed  for  the  sound 
of  a  human  voice,  found  himself  listening  for  such  a 
sound.  The  stillness  was  not  like  the  stillness  of  a 
park,  nor  an  empty  street,  nor  any  of  the  stillnesses  he 
had  ever  experienced.  It  was  not  a  kindly,  restful  still 
ness,  —  not  to  him.  It  was  the  hollow  hush  of  huge 
spaces  emptied  of  all  life.  Life  was  at  his  elbow  almost 
but  he  could  not  make  himself  aware  of  that.  The  for 
ested  wilderness  affected  him  much  as  a  small  child  is 
affected  by  the  dark.  He  was  not  afraid  of  this  de 
pressing  sense  of  emptiness,  but  it  troubled  him. 

Before  nine  o'clock  in  the  forenoon  had  rolled  around 
he  set  off  with  the  express  purpose  of  making  himself 
acquainted  with  Sam  Carr.  Carr  was  a  white  man, 
a  scholar,  MacLeod  had  said.  Passing  over  the  other 
things  MacLeod  had  mentioned  for  his  benefit  Thomp 
son,  in  his  dimly  realized  need  of  some  mental  stimulus, 
could  not  think  of  a  white  man  and  a  scholar  being 
aught  but  a  special  blessing  in  that  primeval  solitude. 
Thompson  had  run  across  that  phrase  in  books  —  pri 
meval  solitude.  He  was  just  beginning  to  understand 
what  it  meant. 

He  set  out  upon  his  quest  of  Sam  Carr  with  a  good 
deal  of  unfounded  hope.  In  his  own  world,  beginning 


48  BURNED    BRIDGES 

with  the  churchly  leanings  of  the  spinster  aunts, 
through  the  successive  steps  of  education  and  his  ulti 
mate  training  for  the  ministry  as  a  profession,  the 
theological  note  had  been  the  note  in  which  he  reasoned 
and  thought  and  felt.  His  environment  had  grounded 
him  in  the  belief  that  all  the  world  vibrated  in  unison 
with  the  theological  harmonies.  He  had  never  had  any 
doubts  or  equivocations.  Faith  was  everything,  and  he 
had  abundance  of  faith.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  until 
he  encountered  MacLeod,  the  factor  of  Fort  Pachugan, 
he  had  never  crossed  swords  with  a  man  open  and  sin 
cere  in  disbelief  based  on  rational  grounds.  He  had 
found  those  who  evaded  and  some  who  were  indifferent, 
many  who  compromised,  never  before  a  sweeping  denial. 
He  could  not  picture  an  atheist  as  other  than  a  per 
verted  monster,  a  moral  degenerate,  the  personification 
of  all  evil.  This  was  his  conception  of  such  as  denied 
his  God.  Blasphemers.  Foredoomed  to  hell.  Yel  he 
had  found  MacLeod  hospitable,  ready  with  kindly  ad 
vice,  occupying  a  position  of  trust  in  the  service  of  a 
great  company.  Was  it  after  all  possible  that  the 
essence  of  Christianity  might  not  be  the  exclusive  pos 
session  of  Christians? 

Insensibly  he  had  to  modify  certain  sweeping  convic 
tions.  He  was  not  conscious  of  this  inner  compulsion 
when  he  concluded  to  try  and  meet  Sam  Carr  without 
making  theology  an  issue.  Somehow  this  man  Carr 
began  to  loom  in  the  background  of  his  thought  as  a 
commanding  figure.  At  least,  Thompson  said  to  him 
self  as  he  passed  through  the  fringe  of  timber,  Sam 
Carr  by  all  accounts  was  a  person  to  whom  an  educated 


FURTHER    ACQUAINTANCE  49 

man  could  speak  in  words  of  more  than  two  syllables 
without  meeting  the  blank  stare  of  incomprehension. 

The  Lachlans  were  worthy  people  enough,  but  — 
He  shook  his  head  despondently.  As  for  the  Crees 
—  well,  he  had  been  at  Lone  Moose  less  than  forty- 
eight  hours  and  he  was  wondering  if  the  Board  of  Home 
Missions  always  shot  as  blindly  at  a  distant  mark. 
It  would  take  him  a  year  to  learn  the  first  smatterings 
of  their  tongue.  A  year !  He  had  understood  that  the 
Lone  Moose  Crees  were  partly  under  civilized  influences. 
Certainly  he  had  believed  that  his  predecessors  in  the 
field  had  laid  some  sort  of  foundation  for  the  work  he 
was  to  carry  on.  It  was  considered  a  matter  of  course 
that  the  mission  quarters  were  livable,  that  some  sort 
of  meeting  place  had  been  provided. 

There  was  a  monetary  basis  for  that  belief.  Some 
two  thousand  dollars  had  been  expended,  or  perhaps 
the  better  word  would  be  appropriated,  for  that  pur 
pose.  Mr.  Thompson  could  not  quite  understand  what 
had  become  of  this  sum.  There  was  nothing  but  a  rat- 
ridden  shack  on  a  half-cleared  acre  in  the  edge  of  the 
forest.  There  had  never  been  anything  else.  Nothing 
had  been  accomplished.  Thompson  shook  his  head 
again.  His  first  report  would  be  a  shock  to  the  Board 
of  Home  Missions. 

He  bore  straight  for  Sam  Carr's  house.  While  still 
some  distance  away  he  made  out  two  men  seated  on  the 
porch.  As  he  drew  nearer  a  couple  of  nondescript 
dogs  rushed  noisily  to  meet  him.  Thompson's  general 
unfamiliarity  with  the  outdoor  world  extended  to  dogs. 
But  he  had  heard  sometime,  somewhere,  that  it  was  well 


SO  BURNED    BRIDGES 

to  put  on  a  bold  front  with  barking  curs.  He  acted 
upon  this  theory,  and  the  dogs  kept  their  teeth  out  of 
his  person,  though  their  clamor  rose  unabated  until 
one  of  the  men  harshly  commanded  them  to  be  quiet. 
Thompson  came  up  to  the  steps.  The  two  men  nodded. 
Their  eyes  rested  upon  him  in  frank  curiosity. 

"  My  name  is  Thompson."  His  diffidence,  verging 
upon  forthright  embarrassment,  precipitated  him  into 
abruptness.  He  was  addressing  the  older  man,  a  spare- 
built  man  with  a  trim  gray  beard  and  a  disconcerting 
direct  gaze.  "  I  am  a  newcomer  to  this  place.  The 
factor  of  Fort  Pachugan  spoke  of  a  Mr.  Carr  here. 
Have  I  —  er  —  the  —  ah  —  pleasure  of  addressing 
that  gentleman  ?  " 

Carr's  gray  eyes  twinkled,  the  myriad  of  fine  creases 
radiating  from  their  outer  corners  deepened. 

"  MacLeod  mentioned  me,  eh  ?  Did  he  intimate  that 
meeting  me  might  prove  a  doubtful  pleasure  for  a  gen 
tleman  of  your  calling?  " 

That  momentarily  served  to  heighten  Mr.  Thomp 
son's  embarrassment  —  like  a  flank  attack  while  he  was 
in  the  act  of  waving  a  flag  of  truce.  But  he  perceived 
that  there  was  no  malice  in  the  words,  only  a  flash  of 
ironic  humor.  Carr  chuckled  dryly. 

"  Meet  Mr.  Tommy  Ashe,  Mr.  Thompson,"  he  said. 
"  Mr.  Ashe  is,  like  yourself,  a  newcomer  to  Lone  Moose. 
You  may  be  able  to  exchange  mutual  curses  on  the 
country.  People  usually  do  at  first." 

"  I've  been  hereabouts  six  months,"  Ashe  smiled  as 
he  rose  to  shake  hands.  (Carr's  friendliness  seemed  a 
trifle  negative,  reserved;  he  had  not  offered  his  hand.) 


FURTHER    ACQUAINTANCE  51 

"  That  means  newly  come,  as  time  is  reckoned  here,'* 
Carr  remarked.  "  It  takes  at  least  a  generation  to 
make  one  permanent.  Have  a  seat,  Mr.  Thompson. 
What  do  you  think,  so  far,  of  the  country  you  have 
selected  for  the  scene  of  your  operations?  " 

The  slightly  ironic  inflection  was  not  lost  upon 
Thompson.  It  nettled  him  a  little,  but  it  was  too  in 
tangible  to  be  resented,  and  in  any  case  he  had  no  ready 
defence  against  that  sort  of  thing.  He  took  a  third 
chair  between  the  two  of  them  and  occupied  himself  a 
moment  exterminating  a  few  mosquitoes  which  had  fol 
lowed  him  from  the  grassy  floor  of  the  meadow  and  now 
slyly  sought  to  find  painful  lodgment  upon  his  face  and 
neck. 

"  To  tell  the  truth,"  he  said  at  last,  "  everything  is  so 
different  from  my  expectations  that  I  find  myself  a  bit 
uncertain.  One  finds  —  well  —  certain  drawbacks." 

"Material  or  spiritual?  "  Carr  inquired  gravely. 

The  Reverend  Thompson  considered. 

"  Both,"  he  answered  briefly. 

This  was  the  most  candid  admission  he  had  ever  per 
mitted  himself.  Carr  laughed  quietly. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  we  are  a  primitive  folk  in  a  prim 
itive  region.  But  I  daresay  you  hope  to  accom 
plish  a  vast  change  for  the  better  in  us,  if  not  in  the 
country  ?  " 

Again  there  was  that  suggestion  of  mockery,  veiled, 
scarcely  perceptible,  a  matter  of  inflection.  Mr. 
Thompson  found  himself  uttering  an  entirely  unpre 
meditated  reply. 

"  Which  I  daresay  you  doubt,  Mr.  Carr.     You  seem 


52  BURNED    BRIDGES 

to  be  fully  aware  of  my  mission  here,  and  rather  dubious 
as  to  its  merit." 

Carr  smiled. 

"  News  travels  fast  in  a  country  where  even  a  pass 
ing  stranger  is  a  notable  event,"  he  remarked.  "Nat 
urally  one  draws  certain  conclusions  when  one  hears 
that  a  minister  has  arrived  in  one's  vicinity.  As  to  my 
doubts  —  first  and  last  I've  seen  three  different  men 
sent  here  by  your  Board  of  Home  Missions.  They  have 
made  no  more  of  an  impression  than  a  pebble  chucked 
into  the  lake.  Your  Board  of  Missions  must  be  a 
visionary  lot.  They  should  come  here  in  a  body.  This 
country  would  destroy  some  of  their  cherished  illusions." 

"  A  desire  to  serve  is  not  an  illusion,"  Thompson  said 
defensively. 

"  One  would  have  to  define  service  before  one  could 
dispute  that,"  Carr  returned  casually.  "  What  I  mean 
is  that  the  people  who  send  you  here  have  not  the  slight 
est  conception  of  what  they  send  you  to.  When  you 
get  here  you  find  yourself  rather  at  sea.  Isn't  it  so  ?  " 

"  In  a  sense,  yes,"  Thompson  reluctantly  admitted. 

"  Oh,  well,"  Carr  said,  with  a  gesture  of  dismissing  the 
subject,  "  that  is  your  private  business  in  any  case. 
We  won't  get  on  at  all  if  we  begin  by  discussing 
theology,  and  dissecting  the  theological  motive  and 
activities.  Do  you  hunt  or  fish  at  all,  Mr.  Thompson?  '? 

Mr.  Thompson  did  not,  and  expressed  no  hankering 
for  such  pursuits.  There  came  a  lapse  in  the  talk. 
Carr  got  out  his  pipe  and  began  stuffing  the  bowl  of  it 
with  tobacco.  Tommy  Ashe  sat  gazing  impassively 
over  the  meadow,  slapping  at  an  occasional  mosquito. 


FURTHER    ACQUAINTANCE  53 

"  Tommy  might  give  you  a  few  pointers  on  game," 
Carr  remarked  at  last.  "  He  has  the  sporting  instinct. 
It  hasn't  become  a  commonplace  routine  with  him  yet, 
a  matter  of  getting  meat,  as  it  has  to  the  rest  of  us 
up  here." 

Ashe  made  his  first  vocal  contribution. 

"  If  you're  going  to  be  about  here  for  awhile,"  said 
he  pleasantly,  "  you'll  find  it  interesting  to  dodge  about 
after  things  in  the  woods  with  a  gun.  Keeps  you  fit, 
for  one  thing.  Lots  of  company  in  a  dog  and  a  gun. 
Is  it  a  permanent  undertaking,  this  missionary  work  of 
yours,  Mr.  Thompson?  " 

"  We  hope  to  make  it  so,"  Mr.  Thompson  responded. 

*'  I  should  say  you've  taken  on  the  deuce  of  a  job," 
Tommy  commented  frankly. 

Thompson  had  no  inclination  to  dispute  that.  He 
had  periods  of  thinking  so  himself. 

The  conversation  languished  again. 

Without  ever  having  been  aware  of  it  Thompson's 
circle  of  friends  and  acquaintances  had  been  people  of 
wordy  inclination.  Their  thoughts  dripped  unceas 
ingly  from  their  tongue's  end  like  water  from  a  leaky 
fjaucet.  He  had  never  come  in  contact  with  a  type  of 
men  who  keep  silent  unless  they  have  something  to  say, 
who  think  more  than  they  speak.  The  spinster  aunts 
had  been  voluble  persons,  full  of  small  chatter,  women 
of  no  mental  reservations  whatever.  The  young  men 
of  his  group  had  not  been  much  different.  The  reflec 
tive  attitude  as  opposed  to  the  discursive  was  new  to 
him.  New  and  embarrassing.  He  felt  impelled  to  talk, 
and  while  he  groped  uncertainly  for  some  congenial 


54  BURNED    BRIDGES 

subject  he  grew  more  and  more  acutely  self-conscious. 
He  felt  that  these  men  were  calmly  taking  his  measure. 
Especially  Sam  Carr. 

He  wanted  to  go  on  talking.  He  protested  against 
their  intercourse  congealing  in  that  fashion.  But  he 
could  find  no  opening.  His  conversational  stock-in- 
trade,  he  had  the  sense  to  realize,  was  totally  unlike 
theirs.  He  could  do  nothing  but  sit  still,  remain  phys 
ically  inert  while  he  was  mentally  in  a  state  of  extreme 
unrest.  He  ventured  a  banality  about  the  weather. 
Carr  smiled  faintly.  Tommy  Ashe  observed  offhand 
that  the  heat  was  beastly,  but  not  a  patch  to  blizzards 
and  frost.  Then  they  were  silent  again. 

Thompson  had  effected  a  sort  of  compromise  with  his 
principles  when  he  sought  Carr.  He  had  more  or  less 
consciously  resolved  to  keep  his  calling  in  the  back 
ground,  to  suppress  the  evangelical  tendency  which  his 
training  had  made  nearly  second  nature.  This  for  the 
sake  of  intelligent  companionship.  He  was  like  a  man 
sentenced  to  solitary  confinement.  Even  the  temporary 
presence  of  a  jailer  is  a  boon  to  such,  a  break  in  the 
ghastly  solitude.  But  he  was  fast  succumbing  to  a 
despair  of  reaching  across  the  barrier  of  this  critical 
silence  and  he  was  about  to  rise  and  leave  when  he  hap 
pened  to  look  about  and  see  Sophie  Carr  standing 
within  arm's  length,  gazing  at  him  with  a  peculiar 
intentness,  a  mild  look  of  surprise  upon  her  vivid  young 
face,  a  trace  of  puzzlement. 

A  most  amazing  thing  happened  to  Mr.  Thompson. 
His  heart  leaped. 

Perhaps  it  rarely  happens  that  a  normal,  healthy 


FURTHER    ACQUAINTANCE  55 

man  reaches  a  comparative  degree  of  maturity  without 
experiencing  a  quickening  of  his  blood  in  the  presence 
of  a  woman.  Yet  it  cannot  be  gainsaid  that  it  does 
happen.  It  was  so  in  Thompson's  case.  Staring  into 
the  clear  pools  of  Sophie  Carr's  gray  eyes  some  strange 
quality  of  attraction  in  a  woman  first  dawned  on  him. 
Something  that  made  him  feel  a  passionate  sense  of 
incompleteness. 

He  did  not  think  this.  The  singular  longing  had 
flamed  up  like  a  beacon  within  him.  It  had  nothing  to 
do  with  his  mental  processes.  It  was  purely  an  instinct 
ive  revelation.  A  blind  man  whose  sight  has  been 
restored,  upon  whose  eager  vision  bursts  suddenly  all 
the  bright  beauty  of  sun  and  sky  and  colorful  land 
scape,  could  have  been  no  more  bewildered  than  he. 
It  was  as  if  indeed  he  had  been  blind. 

All  the  women  he  had  ever  known  seemed  pale  and 
colorless  beside  this  girl  standing  near,  her  head  a  little 
aside  as  she  looked  at  him.  There  was  not  a  detail  of 
her  that  escaped  him,  that  failed  to  make  its  appeal, 
from  the  perfect  oval  of  her  face  down  to  the  small  feet 
in  bead-ornamented  moccasins.  A  woman's  eyes,  her 
hair,  her  hands,  her  bearing  —  these  things  had  never 
obtruded  upon  his  notice  before.  Yet  he  saw  now  that 
a  shaft  of  sunlight  on  her  hair  made  it  shimmer  like 
ripe  wheat  straw,  that  her  breast  was  full  and  rounded, 
her  lips  red  and  sweetly  curved.  But  it  was  not  alone 
that  swift  revelation  of  seductive  beauty,  or  warm 
human  desirableness,  that  stirred  him  so  deeply,  that 
afflicted  him  with  those  queer  uncomfortable  sensations. 
He  found  himself  struggling  with  a  sense  of  guilt,  of 


56  BURNED    BRIDGES 

shame.  The  world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil  seemed 
leagued  against  his  peace  of  mind. 

He  was  filled  with  an  incredulous  wonder  as  to  what 
manner  of  thing  this  was  which  had  blown  through  the 
inner  recesses  of  his  being  like  a  gusty  wind  through 
an  open  door.  He  had  grown  to  manhood  with  nothing 
but  a  cold,  passionless  tolerance  in  his  attitude  toward 
women.  Technically  he  was  aware  of  sex,  advised  as 
to  its  pitfalls  and  temptations ;  actually  he  could  grasp 
nothing  of  the  sort.  A  very  small  child  is  incapable  of 
associating  pain  with  a  hot  iron  until  the  hot  iron  has 
burned  him.  Even  then  he  can  scarcely  correlate 
cause  and  effect.  Neither  could  Thompson.  No 
woman  had  ever  before  stirred  his  pulse  to  an  added 
beat. 

But  this  —  this  subtle,  mysterious  emanation  from  a 
smiling  girl  at  his  elbow  singed  him  like  a  flame.  If 
he  had  been  asleep  he  was  now  in  a  moment  breathlessly, 
confusedly  awake. 

The  commotion  was  all  inward,  mental.  Outwardly 
he  kept  his  composure,  and  the  only  sign  of  that  turmoil 
was  a  tinge  of  color  that  rose  in  his  face.  And  as  if 
there  was  some  mysterious  mode  of  communication 
established  between  them  a  faint  blush  deepened  the 
delicate  tint  of  Sophie  Carr's  cheeks.  Thompson  rose. 
So  did  Tommy  Ashe  with  some  haste  when  he  perceived 
her  there. 

"  No,  no,"  she  protested.  "  Keep  your  chairs, 
please." 

"  Mr.  Thompson,"  Carr's  keen  old  eyes  flickered  be 
tween  the  two  men  and  the  girl.  "  My  daughter.  Mr. 


FURTHER    ACQUAINTANCE  57 

Thompson  is  the  latest  leader  of  the  forlorn  hope  at 
Lone  Moose,  Sophie." 

Mr.  Thompson  murmured  some  conventional  phrase. 
He  was  mightily  disturbed  without  knowing  why  he  was 
so  disturbed,  and  rather  fearful  of  showing  this  incom 
prehensible  state.  The  girl's  manner  put  him  a  little 
at  his  ease.  She  gave  him  her  hand,  soft  warm  fingers 
that  he  had  a  mad  impulse  to  press.  He  wondered  why 
he  felt  like  that.  He  wondered  why  even  the  tones  of 
her  voice  gave  him  a  thrill  of  pleasure. 

"  So  you  are  the  newest  missionary  to  Lone  Moose?  " 
she  said.  "  I  wish  you  luck." 

Although  her  voice  was  full,  throaty  like  a  meadow 
lark's,  her  tone  carried  the  same  sardonic  inflection  he 
had  noticed  in  her  father's  comment  on  his  mission.  It 
pained  Thompson.  He  had  no  available  weapon 
against  that  sort  of  attack.  But  the  girl  did  not 
pursue  the  matter.  She  said  to  her  father: 

"  Crooked  Tree's  oldest  son  is  in  the  kitchen  and 
wants  to  speak  to  you,  Dad." 

Carr  rose.  So  did  Thompson.  He  wanted  to  get 
away,  to  think,  to  fortify  himself  somehow  against  this 
siren  call  in  his  blood.  He  was  sadly  perplexed.  Meas 
ured  by  his  own  standards,  even  to  harbor  such  thoughts 
as  welled  up  in  his  mind  was  a  sinful  weakness  of  the 
flesh.  He  was  in  as  much  anxiety  to  get  away  from 
Carr's  as  he  had  been  to  find  a  welcome  there. 

"  I  think  I  shall  be  moving  along,"  he  said  to  Carr. 
"  I'll  say  good-day,  sir." 

Carr  thrust  out  a  brown  sinewy  hand  with  the  first 
trace  of  heartiness  he  had  shown. 


58  BURNED    BRIDGES 

"  Come  again  when  you  feel  like  it,"  he  invited. 
"  When  you  have  time  and  inclination  we'll  match  our 
theories  of  the  human  problem,  maybe.  Of  course  we'll 
disagree.  But  my  bark  is  worse  than  my  bite,  no  mat 
ter  what  you've  heard." 

He  strode  off.  Sophie  bowed  to  Thompson,  nodded 
to  Tommy  Ashe,  and  followed  her  father.  Ashe  got 
up,  stretched  his  sturdy  young  arms  above  his  fair, 
curly  head.  He  was  perhaps  a  year  or  two  older  than 
Thompson,  a  little  thicker  through  the  chest,  and  not 
quite  so  tall.  One  imagined  rightly  that  he  was  very 
strong,  that  he  could  be  swift  and  purposeful  in  his 
movements,  despite  an  apparent  deliberation.  His  face 
was  boyishly  expressive.  He  had  a  way  of  smiling  at 
trifles.  And  one  did  not  have  to  puzzle  over  his  nation 
ality.  He  was  English.  His  accent  and  certain  intona 
tions  established  that. 

He  picked  up  a  gun  now  from  where  it  stood  against 
the  wall,  whistled  shrilly,  and  a  brown  dog  appeared 
hastily  from  somewhere  in  the  grass,  wagging  his  tail 
in  anticipation. 

"  Mind  if  I  poke  along  with  you,"  he  said  to  Thomp 
son.  "  There's  a  slough  over  beyond  your  diggin's 
where  I  go  now  and  then  to  pick  up  a  duck  or  two." 

They  fell  into  step  across  the  meadow. 

"  Our  host,"  Thompson  observed,  "  is  not  quite  th< 
type  one  expects  to  find  here  —  permanently.  I  under 
stand  he  has  been  here  a  long  time." 

"  Fifteen  years,"  Tommy  supplied  cheerfully. 
"  Deuce  of  a  time  to  be  buried  alive,  eh?  Carr  hasn't 
got  rusty,  though.  No.  Mind  like  a  steel  trap,  that 


FURTHER    ACQUAINTANCE  59 

man.  Curious  sort  of  individual.  You  ought  to  see 
the  books  he's  got.  Amazing.  Science,  philosophy, 
the  poets  —  all  sorts.  Don't  try  arguing  theology 
with  him  unless  you're  quite  advanced.  Of  course,  I 
know  the  church  is  adapting  itself  to  modern  thought, 
in  a  way.  But  he'll  tie  you  in  a  bowknot  if  you  hold 
to  the  old  theological  doctrines.  Fact.  Carr's  schol 
arly  sort,  but  awfully  radical.  Awfully." 

"  It's  queer,"  said  Thompson,  "  why  a  man  like  that 
should  bury  himself  here  so  long.  Is  it  a  fact  that  he 
is  married  to  a  native  woman?  His  daughter  now  — 
one  wouldn't  imagine  her  — " 

"  No  fear,"  Tommy  Ashe  interrupted.  "  Carr's  got 
an  Indian  woman,  right  enough.  They've  got  three 
mixed-blood  youngsters.  But  his  daughter  — " 

He  gave  Thompson  a  quick  sidelong  glance. 

"  Sophie's  pure  blood,"  said  he.  "  She's  a  thorough 
bred." 

He  said  it  almost  challengingly. 


CHAPTER  VI 

CERTAIN     PERPLEXITIES 

FROM  the  direction  of  the  slough  two  shots  sounded, 
presently  followed  by  two  more.  Then  the  gleeful  yip- 
ping  of  Tommy's  Ashe's  retriever,  and  Tommy's  sten 
torian  encouragement : 

"  That's  the  boy.     Fetch  him." 

Close  upon  this  Mr.  Thompson's  up-pricked  ear 
detected  another  voice,  one  that  immediately  set  up  in 
him  an  involuntary  eagerness  of  listening,  a  clear,  liquid 
voice  that  called: 

"  Oh,  Tommy,  there's  another  wounded  one,  swim 
ming  away.  Quick !  " 

Pow!  Tommy's  twelve-gauge  cracked  again.  The 
two  voices  called  laughingly  back  and  forth  across  the 
slough,  mingled  with  the  excited  barking  of  the  brown 
dog  as  he  retrieved  the  slaughtered  ducks.  After  a  time 
silence  fell.  Thompson's  nose  detected  an  odor.  He 
turned  hastily  to  his  stove.  But  he  had  listened  too 
long.  The  biscuits  in  his  oven  were  smoking. 

That  did  not  matter  greatly  in  itself.  It  was  merely 
one  of  a  long  procession  of  culinary  disasters.  He 
could  not,  somehow,  contrive  to  prepare  food  in  the 
simple  manner  of  Mike  Breyette's  instructions.  If  the 
biscuits  had  not  scorched  probably  they  would  have 
been  hopelessly  soggy,  dismal  things  compared  to  the 


CERTAIN    PERPLEXITIES  61 

brown  discs  Mike  had  turned  out  of  the  same  oven. 
One  was  as  bad  as  the  other.  Nothing  seemed  to  work 
out  right.  Nothing  ever  tasted  right.  Only  a  healthy 
hunger  enabled  him  to  swallow  the  unsavory  messes  he 
concocted  in  the  name  of  food. 

He  had  been  at  Lone  Moose  two  weeks  now.  His 
real  work,  his  essential  labor  in  that  untilled  field,  was 
no  farther  advanced.  He  made  about  the  same  prog 
ress  as  a  missionary  that  he  made  as  a  cook.  In  so 
far  as  Lone  Moose  was  concerned  he  accomplished 
nothing  because,  like  Archimedes,  he  lacked  a  foothold 
from  which  to  apply  his  leverage.  He  had  the  intelli 
gence  to  perceive  that  these  people  had  no  pressing 
wants  which  they  looked  to  him  to  supply,  that  they 
were  apparently  impervious  to  any  message  he  could 
deliver.  His  power  to  deliver  a  message  was  vitiated 
by  this  utter  absence  of  receptivity.  He  was,  and  real 
ized  that  he  was,  as  superfluous  in  Lone  Moose  as  ster 
ling  silver  and  cut  glass  in  a  house  where  there  is 
neither  food  nor  drink. 

Also  he  was  no  longer  so  secure  in  the  comfortable 
belief  that  all  things  work  for  an  ultimate  good.  He 
was  not  so  sure  that  a  sparrow,  or  even  an  ordained 
servant  of  God,  might  not  fall  and  the  Almighty  be 
none  the  wiser.  The  material  considerations  which  he 
had  always  scorned  pressed  upon  him  in  an  unescapable 
manner.  There  was  no  getting  away  from  them. 
Thrown  at  last  upon  his  own  resources  he  began  to 
take  stock  of  his  needs,  his  instincts,  his  impulses,  and 
to  compare  them  with  the  needs  and  instincts  and  im 
pulses  of  a  more  Godless  humanity,  —  and  he  could  not 


62  BURNED    BRIDGES 

escape  certain  conclusions.  Faith  may  move  mountains, 
but  chiefly  through  the  medium  of  a  shovel.  When  a 
man  is  hungry  his  need  is  for  food.  When  he  is  lonely 
he  craves  companionship.  When  he  grieves  he  desires 
sympathy.  And  the  Providence  Mr.  Thompson  had 
been  taught  to  lean  so  hard  upon  did  not  chop  his  wood, 
cook  his  meals,  furnish  him  with  congenial  society,  com 
fort  him  when  he  was  sad. 

"  Religion  or  nonreligion,  belief  in  a  personal,  imma 
nent  God  or  a  rank  materialism  that  holds  to  a  purely 
mechanical  theory  of  the  universe,  it  doesn't  make  much 
difference  which  you  hold  to  if  you  do  not  set  yourself 
up  as  the  supreme  authority  and  insist  that  the  other 
fellow  must  believe  as  you  do. 

"  Because,  my  dear  sir,  you  cannot  escape  material 
factors.  The  human  organism  can't  exist  without  food, 
clothing,  and  shelter.  Society  cannot  attain  to  a  cul 
ture  which  tends  to  soften  the  harshnesses  of  existence, 
without  leisure  in  which  to  develop  that  culture. 
Machinery  and  science  and  art  weren't  handed  to 
humanity  done  up  in  a  package.  Man  only  attained 
to  these  things  through  a  long  process  of  evolution,  and 
he  only  attained  them  by  the  use  of  his  muscle  and  the 
exercise  of  his  intellect.  Strength  and  skill  —  plus 
application.  Nothing  else  gets  either  an  individual  or 
a  race  forward.  Don't  you  see  the  force  of  that? 
Here  is  man  with  his  fundamental,  undeniable  needs. 
Here  is  the  earth  with  the  fulness  thereof.  There's 
nothing  mysterious  or  supernatural  about  it.  Brain 
and  brawn  applied  to  the  problems  of  living.  That's 
all.  And  you  can't  dodge  it.  The  first,  pressing  re- 


CERTAIN    PERPLEXITIES  63 

quirements  of  any  man  can  only  be  filled  in  two  ways. 
First  by  working  and  planning  and  getting  for  him 
self.  Second  by  being  able  *o  compel  the  strength  and 
skill  of  others  to  function  for  him  so  that  his  needs  will 
be  supplied ;  in  other  words,  by  some  turn  of  circum 
stances,  or  some  dominant  quality  in  himself,  to  get 
something  for  nothing." 

Sam  Carr  had  delivered  himself  of  this  as  a  wind-up 
to  a  conversation  with  Thompson  the  evening  before. 
Now,  while  his  forgotten  biscuits  scorched  and  he 
listened  to  Tommy  Ashe  and  Sophie  Carr  taking  their 
toll  of  meat  from  the  flocks  of  waterfowl,  he  was  think 
ing  over  what  Carr  had  said.  He  dissented.  Oh,  he 
dissented  with  a  vigor  that  was  almost  bitterness,  be 
cause  the  smiling  quirk  of  Sam  Carr's  lips  when  he 
uttered  the  last  sentence  gave  it  something  of  a  personal 
edge.  However  it  was  meant,  Thompson  could  not  help 
taking  it  that  way.  And  Mr.  Thompson's  desire  was 
to  give  —  to  give  lavishly.  Only  here  in  this  forsaken 
corner  of  the  world  he  seemed  to  have  nothing  to  give 
that  was  of  any  value. 

He  was,  at  the  same  time,  discovering  in  himself  per 
sonal  needs  to  which  he  had  never  given  a  thought, 
sordid  every-day  necessities  the  satisfaction  of  which 
had  always  been  at  hand,  unquestioned,  taken  for 
granted  much  as  one  takes  the  sun  and  the  air  for 
granted.  His  meals  had  been  provided.  His  bed  had 
been  provided.  The  funds  which  had  clothed  and  edu 
cated  him  and  trained  him  for  the  ministry  had  been 
provided,  and  likewise  his  transportation  to  the  scene 
of  his  endeavors.  How,  he  had  not  known  except  in 


64  BURNED    BRIDGES 

the  vaguest  way,  he  had  not  particularly  inquired,  any 
more  than  the  child  inquires  the  whence  and  the  why 
of  luscious  berries  he  finds  growing  upon  a  bush  in  the 
garden. 

Not  until  he  was  torn  by  the  roots  out  of  the  old, 
ordered  environment  and  flung  headlong  into  an  environ 
ment  where  cause  and  effect  are  linked  close  did  he 
consider  these  things.  Materially  he  was  getting  a 
first-hand  lesson  in  economics  —  and  domestic  science 
of  a  sort!  Spiritually  he  was  a  little  bit  aghast, 
amazed  that  the  Almighty  did  not  personally  intervene 
to  save  a  man  from  his  own  inefficiency.  He  began  to 
grasp  the  hitherto  unnoted  fact  that  meals  and  a  bed 
and  fires  and  clothes  and  all  the  other  stark  necessities 
involved  labor  of  the  hands,  skilful  exercise  of  the 
thought-function. 

If  this  was  so,  he,  Wesley  Thompson,  twenty-five 
years  of  age  and  a  minister  of  the  gospel,  was  deeply 
in  debt  —  unless  he  denied  the  justice  of  giving  value 
for  value  received.  He  had  received  much;  he  had 
returned  nothing  except  perfunctory  thanks.  And 
what  had  he  to  give?  Even  to  him,  transcendent  as 
was  his  faith  that  the  glory  of  man  was  but  the  re 
flected  glory  of  God,  that  faith  was  not  a  commodity 
to  be  bartered. 

He  did  not  think  these  things  in  these  terms.  He 
found  himself  becoming  involved  in  a  maze  of  specula 
tion,  in  which  he  could  only  grope  feebly  for  words  to 
define  the  unrest  that  was  in  him. 

While  he  sat  at  his  small  table  of  rough-hewn  boards 
with  his  scorched,  unappetizing  biscuits,  ill-cooked  pota- 


CERTAIN    PERPLEXITIES  65 

toes  and  bacon,  and  a  pot  of  tea  that  he  could  never 
brew  to  his  liking  (and  Mr.  Thompson,  from  a  consid 
erable  amount  of  juggling  afternoon  teacups,  had 
acquired  a  nice  taste  in  that  beverage)  he  saw  Tommy 
Ashe  and  Sophie  Carr  pass  along  one  edge  of  his  clear 
ing,  a  cluster  of  bright-winged  ducks  slung  over 
Tommy's  shoulder,  their  voices  floating  across  to  him 
as  if  they  came  down  a  long  corridor.  They  disap 
peared  toward  Lone  Moose  through  the  timber,  and 
Mr.  Thompson  sat  brooding  over  his  lonely  meal  until 
he  realized  with  a  start  that  his  mind  was  concentrating 
upon  Sophie  Carr  with  a  disturbing  insistence. 

The  plague  of  mosquitoes  had  somewhat  abated.  In 
the  early  morning  and  for  a  time  in  the  evening,  and 
also  when  rain  dampened  the  atmosphere,  these  pests 
still  kept  a  man's  hands  busy  warding  them  off.  But 
through  the  dry  heat  of  the  day  he  could  go  abroad  in 
reasonable  comfort. 

So  now  Mr.  Thompson  washed  up  his  dishes  in  a 
fashion  to  make  the  lips  of  a  careful  housekeeper  pucker 
in  disdain,  clapped  on  his  broken-rimmed  straw  hat  and 
sallied  forth. 

He  was  full  of  an  earnest  desire  to  do  good,  as  he 
defined  doing  good.  He  had  come  here  for  that  pur 
pose,  backed  by  an  organization  for  just  such  good 
work.  This  evangelical  fire  burned  strong  in  him 
despite  the  crude  shifts  he  was  put  to,  the  loneliness, 
the  perplexities  and  trials  of  the  spirit.  Just  as  an 
educated  humanitarian  coming  upon  an  illiterate  people 
would  gladly  banish  their  illiteracy,  so  Thompson  was 
resolved  to  banish  what  he  deemed  the  spiritual  dark- 


66  BURNED    BRIDGES 

ness  of  these  primitive  folk.  Holding  as  he  did  to  the 
orthodoxy  of  sin  and  salvation,  of  a  literal  heaven  and 
a  nebulous  sort  of  hell,  he  deemed  it  his  business  to  show 
them  with  certainty  the  paths  that  led  to  each. 

But  he  could  not  reach  them  unless  he  could  speak 
their  tongue,  he  could  not  gather  them  about  him  in 
the  open  meadow  as  the  Man  of  Galilee  gathered  his 
disciples  about  him.  The  climate  was  against  that 
simple  procedure.  Therefore  he  postulated  two  things 
as  necessary  to  make  a  beginning  —  to  learn  the  tribal 
language  and  to  build  a  church. 

He  was  making  an  attempt  at  both,  and  making 
little  more  progress  than  he  made  in  the  culinary  art. 
Only  a  naturally  vigorous  stomach  enabled  him  to 
assimilate  the  messes  he  cooked  without  suffering  acute 
indigestion.  Likewise  only  a  naive  turn  of  mind  en 
abled  him  to  ward  off  mental  indigestion  in  his  struggles 
with  the  language.  Whatever  the  defects  of  his  train 
ing  for  what  he  considered  his  life  work,  he  had  consid 
erable  power  of  application.  He  might  get  discour 
aged,  but  he  was  not  a  quitter.  He  kept  trying.  This 
took  the  form  of  studying  the  Athabascan  gutturals 
with  the  aid  of  Lachlan's  second  son,  a  boy  of  eighteen. 
For  an  hour  in  the  forenoon  and  the  same  in  the  even 
ing  he  struggled  with  pronunciations  and  meanings  like 
a  child  learning  the  alphabet,  forgetting,  like  the  child, 
a.  good  deal  of  it  between  lessons.  And  he  had  begun 
work  on  a  log  building  twenty  by  thirty  feet,  that  was 
to  be  a  meeting-house. 

He  did  not  get  on  with  this  very  fast.  He  laid  his 
foundation  in  the  edge  of  the  timber  to  lessen  the  dis- 


CERTAIN    PERPLEXITIES  67 

tance  his  material  must  be  moved.  He  had  to  fell 
trees,  to  lop  off  the  branches,  and  cut  the  trunks  to 
proper  length,  then  roll  them  with  infinite  effort  to  their 
proper  place  in  the  structure.  He  could  only  gather 
how  a  log  building  could  be  erected  by  asking  Lachlan, 
and  by  taking  the  Lone  Moose  cabins  for  his  model. 
And  he  was  a  fearful  and  wonderful  axeman.  His  log 
ends  looked  as  if  chewed  by  a  beaver,  except  that  they 
lacked  the  beaver's  neatness  of  finish.  His  feet  suf 
fered  manifold  hairbreadth  escapes  from  the  sharp 
blade.  He  could  never  guess  which  way  a  tree  would 
fall.  For  a  week's  work  he  had  got  two  courses  of 
logs  laid  in  position. 

He  did  not  allow  his  mind  to  dwell  on  the  ultimate 
outcome  of  this  task,  because  he  was  uneasily  aware 
that  Lone  Moose  was  smiling  slyly  behind  its  brown 
hand  at  him  and  his  works.  In  his  mind  there  was 
nothing  for  it  but  a  church.  He  had  tried  one  Sunday 
service  at  Lachlan's  house,  with  Lachlan  senior  to  inter 
pret  his  words.  The  Indians  had  come.  Indeed,  they 
had  come  en  masse.  They  packed  the  room  he  spoke 
in,  big  and  little,  short,  chunky  natives,  and  tall,  thin- 
faced  ones,  and  the  overflow  spilled  into  the  kitchen 
beyond.  The  day  was  very  hot,  the  roof  low,  the 
windows  closed.  There  was  a  vitiation  of  the  atmos 
phere  that  was  not  helped  by  a  strong  bodily  odor,  a 
stout  and  sturdy  smell  that  came  near  to  sickening  Mr. 
Thompson.  He  was  extraordinarily  glad  when  he  got 
outside.  That  closeness  —  to  speak  mildly  —  coupled 
with  the  heavy,  copper-red  faces,  impassive  as  masks, 
impersonally  listening  with  scarcely  a  flicker  of  the  eye- 


68  BURNED    BRIDGES 

lids,  made  Thompson  forswear  another  attempt  to 
preach  until  he  could  speak  to  them  in  their  own  tongue 
and  speak  to  them  in  a  goodly  place  of  worship  where 
a  man's  thoughts  would  not  be  imperiously  distracted 
by  a  pressing  need  of  ventilation. 

Coming  now  to  the  site  he  had  chosen,  he  stood  for 
a  moment  casting  an  eye  over  the  scene  of  his  under 
taking.  The  longer  he  looked  at  it  the  more  of  an 
undertaking  it  seemed.  He  had  heard  Lachlan  speak 
of  two  men  felling  trees  and  putting  up  a  sixteen-foot 
cabin  complete  from  foundation  to  ridgelog  in  three 
days.  He  did  not  see  how  it  could  be  done.  He  was 
thoroughly  incredulous  of  that  statement.  But  he  did 
expect  to  roof  in  that  church  before  the  snow  fell.  Its 
walls  would  be  consecrated  with  sweat  and  straining 
muscles.  It  would  be  a  concrete  accomplishment.  The 
instinct  to  create,  the  will  to  fashion  and  mold,  to  see 
something  take  form  under  his  hands,  had  begun  to 
stir  in  him. 

Axe  in  hand,  he  set  to  work.  He  had  learned  the 
first  lesson  of  manual  labor  —  that  a  man  cannot  swing 
his  arms  and  breathe  deeply  if  his  body  is  swaddled  in 
clothes.  His  coat  came  off  and  his  vest  and  his  hat, 
all  slung  across  a  fallen  tree.  Presently,  as  he  warmed 
up,  his  outer  shirt  joined  the  discarded  garments. 

Stripped  for  action  in  a  literal  sense  he  did  not  in 
the  least  conform  to  the  clerical  figure.  He  was  the 
antithesis  of  asceticism,  of  gentleness,  of  spiritual  and 
scholarly  repose.  He  was  simply  a  big  man  lustily 
chopping,  red  in  the  face  from  his  exertions,  beads  of 
sweat  standing  out  on  brow  and  cheek,  his  sturdy  neck 


CERTAIN    PERPLEXITIES  69 

all  a-glisten  with  moisture.  Under  his  thin,  short- 
sleeved  undershirt  his  biceps  rippled  and  played.  The 
flat  muscle-bands  across  his  broad  chest  slackened  and 
tightened  as  his  arms  swung.  For  Mr.  Thompson  had 
been  fashioned  by  Nature  in  a  generous  mood.  He  was 
not  a  heroic  figure,  but  he  was  big  and  built  as  a  man 
should  be,  deep  in  the  chest,  flat-backed,  very  straight 
when  he  stood  erect.  He  had  escaped  the  scholarly 
stoop.  If  his  muscles  were  soft  they  were  in  a  fair  way 
to  become  hardened. 

He  was  more  or  less  unconscious  of  all  this.  He  had 
never  thought  of  his  body  as  being  strong  or  well- 
shaped,  because  he  had  never  used  it,  never  pitted  his 
strength  against  the  strength  of  other  men,  never 
worked,  never  striven.  It  had  never  been  necessary  for 
him  to  do  so.  He  had  been  taught  that  pride  of  that 
sort  was  sinful,  and  he  had  accepted  the  teaching  rather 
too  literally. 

Already  a  curious  sort  of  change  was  manifesting  in 
him.  His  blue  eyes  had  a  different  expression  than  one 
would  have  observed  in  them  during  —  well,  during  the 
period  of  his  theological  studies,  shall  we  say,  when  the 
state  of  his  soul  and  the  state  of  other  people's  souls 
was  the  only  consideration.  One  would  have  been 
troubled  to  make  out  any  pronounced  personality  then. 
He  was  simply  a  studious  young  man  with  a  sancti 
monious  air.  But  now  that  the  wind  and  the  sun  had 
somewhat  turned  his  fair  skin  and  brought  out  a  goodly 
crop  of  freckles,  now  that  the  vigor  of  his  movements 
and  the  healthy  perspiration  had  rumpled  up  his  red 
dish-brown  hair  and  put  a  wave  in  it,  he  could  — 


70  BURNED    BRIDGES 

standing  up  on  his  log  —  easily  have  passed  for  a  husky 
woodsman;  until  some  experienced  eye  observed  him 
make  such  sorry  work  of  a  woodsman's  task.  He  had 
acquired  no  skill  with  the  axe.  That  takes  time.  But 
he  made  vigorous  endeavor,  and  he  was  beginning  to 
feel  strength  flow  through  him,  to  realize  it  as  a  poten 
tial  blessing.  Now  that  the  soreness  was  working  out 
of  his  sinews  it  gave  him  a  peculiar  elation  to  lay  hold 
of  a  log-end,  to  heave  until  his  arms  and  back  grew 
rigid,  and  to  feel  the  heavy  weight  move.  That  exult 
ant  sense  of  physical  power  was  quite  new  and  rather 
puzzling  to  him.  He  could  not  understand  why  he 
enjoyed  chopping  logs  and  moving  them  about,  and 
yet  was  prone  to  grow  moody,  to  be  full  of  disquieting 
perplexities  when  he  sat  down  to  think. 

He  had  been  at  work  for  perhaps  two  hours.  He 
was  resting.  To  be  explicit,  he  was  standing  on  a 
fallen  tree.  Between  his  feet  there  was  a  notch  cut 
half-way  through  the  wood.  In  this  white  gash  the 
blade  of  his  axe  was  driven  solidly,  and  he  rested  his 
hands  on  the  rigid  haft  while  he  stood  drawing  gulps 
of  forest-scented  air  into  his  lungs. 

Mr.  Thompson  was  not  gifted  with  eyes  in  the  back 
of  his  head.  His  hearing  was  keen  enough,  but  the 
soft,  turfy  earth  absorbed  footfalls,  especially  when 
that  foot  was  shod  with  a  buckskin  moccasin.  So  he 
did  not  see  Sophie  Carr,  nor  hear  her  until  a  thought 
that  was  running  in  his  mind  slipped  off  the  end  of  his 
tongue. 

"  This  is  going  to  make  a  terrible  amount  of  labor." 

He  said  this  aloud,  in  a  matter-of-fact  tone. 


CERTAIN    PERPLEXITIES  71 

"  And  a  terrible  waste  of  labor,"  Sophie  answered 
him. 

He  looked  quickly  over  one  shoulder,  saw  her  stand 
ing  there,  got  down  off  his  log  —  blushing  a  little  at 
his  comparative  nakedness.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he 
must  appear  shockingly  nude,  since  the  upper  part  of 
his  body  was  but  thinly  covered  by  a  garment  that 
opened  wide  over  his  breast.  He  felt  a  good  deal  like 
a  shy  girl  first  appearing  on  the  beach  in  an  abbre 
viated  bathing  suit.  But  Sophie  seemed  unconscious 
of  his  embarrassment,  or  the  cause  of  it.  However, 
Mr.  Thompson  picked  up  his  coat,  and  felt  more  at 
ease  when  he  had  slipped  it  on.  He  sat  down,  still 
breathing  heavily  from  his  recent  exertions. 

"  Why  do  you  say  that  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  well,"  she  said  —  and  left  the  sentence  unfin 
ished,  save  by  an  outward  motion  of  her  hands  that 
might  have  meant  anything.  But  she  smiled,  and  Mr. 
Thompson  observed  that  she  had  fine,  white,  even  teeth. 
Each  time  he  saw  her  some  salient  personal  feature 
seemed  to  claim  his  attention.  To  be  sure  he  had  seen 
other  girls  with  good  teeth  and  red  lips  and  other 
physical  charms  perhaps  as  great  as  Sophie  Carr's. 
But  these  things  had  never  riveted  his  attention.  There 
was  something  about  this  girl  that  quickened  every 
fiber  of  his  being.  And  even  while  she  made  him  always 
acutely  conscious  of  her  bodily  presence,  he  was  a  little 
bit  afraid  of  her.  He  had  swift,  discomforting  visions 
of  her  standing  afar  beckoning  to  him,  and  of  himself 
unable  to  resist,  no  matter  what  the  penalty.  She 
stirred  up  things  in  his  mind  that  made  him  blush.  He 


72  BURNED    BRIDGES 

was  conscious  of  a  desire  to  touch  her  hand,  to  kiss 
her.  He  found  himself  totally  unable  to  close  the 
gates  of  his  mind  against  such  thoughts  when  she  was 
near  him.  And  it  was  self-generated  within  him. 
Sophie  Carr  was  never  more  than  impersonally  pleasant 
to  him.  Sometimes  she  was  utterly  indifferent.  Often 
she  said  things  about  his  calling  that  made  him  wince. 

"  Tell  me,"  Thompson  said  abruptly,  after  a  momen 
tary  silence,  "  how  it  happens  that  the  men  who  have 
been  here  before  me  left  no  trace  of  any  —  any  —  well, 
anything?  There  have  been  other  missionaries.  They 
had  funds.  They  were  stationed  here.  What  did  they 
do?  I  have  been  going  to  ask  your  father.  I  daresay 
you  can  tell  me  yourself." 

The  girl  laughed,  whether  at  the  question  or  at  his 
earnestness  he  could  not  say. 

"  They  did  nothing,"  she  answered  in  an  amused 
tone.  "  What  could  they  do  ?  You  haven't  begun  to 
realize  yet  what  a  difficult  job  you've  tackled.  The 
others  came  here,  stayed  awhile,  threw  up  their  hands 
and  went  away.  Their  idea  of  doing  good  seemed  to 
consist  of  having  a  ready-made  church  and  a  ready- 
made  congregation,  and  to  preach  nice  little,  ready- 
\nade  religiosities  on  a  Sunday.  You  can't  preach  any 
thing  to  a  people  who  don't  understand  a  word  you  say, 
and  who  are  mostly  too  busy  with  more  pressing  affaii 
to  listen  if  they  did  understand.  And  you  see  for  youi 
self  there's  no  church." 

"  But  what  did  these  fellows  do  ?  "  he  persisted.  Thai 
had  been  puzzling  him. 

"  Nothing,"  she  said   scornfully,  "  nothing  but  sil 


CERTAIN    PERPLEXITIES  73 

around  and  complain  about  the  loneliness  and  the  coarse 
food  and  the  discouraging  outlook.  Then  they'd 
finally  go  away  —  go  back  to  where  they  came  from,  I 
suppose." 

"  The  last  man,"  Thompson  ventured  doubtfully. 
"  The  factor  at  Pachugan  told  me  Mr.  Carr  assaulted 
him.  That  seems  rather  odd  to  me,  after  what  I've 
seen  of  your  father.  Was  it  so?  " 

"  The  last  missionary  wasn't  what  you'd  call  a  good 
man,  in  any  sense,"  Sophie  answered  frankly.  "  He 
was  here  most  of  one  summer,  and  toward  the  last  he 
showed  himself  up  pretty  badly.  He  developed  a  nasty 
trick  of  annoying  little  native  girls.  Dad  thrashed 
him  properly.  Dad  took  it  as  a  sort  of  reflection  on 
us.  Even  the  Indians  don't  approve  of  that  sort  of 
thing.  He  left  in  a  hurry,  after  that." 

Thompson  felt  his  face  burn. 

"  Things  like  that  made  a  bad  impression,"  he  re 
turned  diffidently.  "  I  suppose  in  all  walks  of  life  there 
are  wolves  in  sheep's  clothing.  I  hope  it  hasn't  preju 
diced  you  against  churchmen  in  general." 

"  One  single  incident  ?  "  she  smiled.  "  That  wouldn't 
be  very  logical,  would  it?  No.  We're  not  so  intoler 
ant.  I  don't  suppose  dad  would  actually  have  gone 
the  length  of  thrashing  him,  if  the  preacher  hadn't  taken 
a  high  and  mighty  tone  as  a  sort  of  bluff.  That  par 
ticular  preacher  happened  to  be  a  local  nuisance.  I 
suppose  in  a  settled,  well-organized  community,  public 
opinion  and  convention  is  a  check  on  such  men.  They 
keep  within  bounds  because  there's  a  heavy  penalty  if 
they  don't.  Up  here  where  law  and  conventions  and 


74  BURNED    BRIDGES 

so  on  practically  don't  exist,  men  of  a  certain  stamp 
aren't  long  in  reverting  to  pure  animalism.  It's  nat 
ural  enough,  I  dare  say.  Dad  would  be  the  last  one  to 
set  himself  up  as  a  critic  of  any  one's  personal  morality. 
But  it  isn't  very  nice,  especially  for  preachers,  who 
come  here  posing  as  the  representatives  of  all  that  is 
good  and  pure  and  holy." 

"  You  get  terribly  sarcastic  at  times,  Miss  Carr," 
Thompson  complained.  "  A  man  can  preach  the  Gos 
pel  without  losing  his  manhood." 

"  If  he  had  any  clear  conception  of  manhood  I  don't 
see  how  he  could  devote  himself  to  preaching  as  a  pro 
fession,"  she  said  composedly.  "  Of  course,  it's  per 
haps  an  excellent  means  of  livelihood,  but  rather  a 
parasitic  means,  don't  you  think?  " 

"  When  Christ  came  among  men  He  was  reviled  and 
despised,"  Mr.  Thompson  declared  impressively. 

"  Do  you  consider  yourself  the  prototype  of  Christ?  " 
the  girl  inquired  mockingly.  "  Why,  if  the  man  of 
Galilee  could  be  reincarnated  the  first  thing  He  would 
attack  would  be  the  official  expounders  of  Christianity, 
with  their  creeds  and  formalisms,  their  temples  and 
their  self-seeking.  The  Nazarene  was  a  radical.  The 
average  preacher  is  an  out-and-out  reactionary." 

"  How  do  you  know?  "  he  challenged  boldly.  "  Ac 
cording  to  your  own  account  of  your  life  so  far,  you 
have  never  had  opportunity  to  find  the  truth  or  falsity 
of  such  a  sweeping  statement.  You've  always  lived  — " 
he  looked  about  the  enfolding  woods  —  "  how  can  one 
know  what  the  world  outside  of  Lake  Athabasca  is,  if 
one  has  never  been  them?  " 


CERTAIN    PERPLEXITIES  75 

She  laughed. 

"  One  can't  know  positively,"  she  said.  "  Not  from 
personal  experience.  But  one  can  read  eagerly,  and 
one  can  think  about  what  one  reads,  and  one  can  draw 
pretty  fair  conclusions  from  history,  from  what  wise 
men,  real  thinkers,  have  written  about  this  big  world 
one  has  never  seen.  And  the  official  exponents  of  the 
ology  show  up  rather  poorly  as  helpful  social  factors,  so 
far  as  my  study  of  sociology  has  gone." 

"  You  seem  to  have  a  grudge  against  the  cloth," 
Thompson  hazarded  a  shrewd  guess.  "  I  wonder 
why?  " 

"  I'll  tell  you  why,"  the  girl  said  —  and  she  laughed 
a  little  self-consciously.  "  My  reason  tells  me  it's  a 
silly  way  to  feel.  I  can  never  quite  consider  theology 
and  the  preachers  from  the  same  dispassionate  plane 
that  dad  can.  There's  a  foolish  sense  of  personal 
grievance.  Dad  had  it  once,  too,  but  he  got  over  it 
long  ago.  I  never  have.  Perhaps  you'll  understand 
if  I  tell  you.  My  mother  was  a  vain,  silly,  emotional 
sort  of  person,  it  seems,  with  some  wonderful  capacity 
for  attracting  men.  Dad  was  passionately  fond  of 
her.  When  I  was  about  three  years  old  my  foolish 
mother  ran  away  with  a  young  minister.  After  living 
with  him  about  six  months,  wandering  about  from  place 
to  place,  she  drowned  herself." 

Thompson  listened  to  this  recital  of  human  frailty 
in  wonder  at  the  calm  way  in  which  Sophie  Carr  could 
speak  to  him,  a  stranger,  of  a  tragedy  so  intimate.  She 
stopped  a  second. 

"  Dad  was  all  broken  up  about  it,"  she  continued. 


76  BURNED    BRIDGES 

"  He  loved  my  mother  with  all  her  weaknesses  —  and 
he's  a  man  with  a  profound  knowledge  of  and  tolerance 
for  human  weaknesses.  I  daresay  he  would  have  been 
quite  willing  to  consider  the  past  a  blank  if  she  had 
found  out  she  cared  most  for  him,  and  had  come  back. 
But,  as  I  said,  she  drowned  herself.  We  lived  in  the 
eastern  States.  It  simply  unrooted  dad.  He  took 
me  and  came  away  up  here  and  buried  himself.  Inci 
dentally  he  buried  me  too.  And  I  don't  want  to  be 
buried.  I  resent  being  buried.  I  hope  I  shall  not 
always  be  a  prisoner  in  these  woods.  And  I  grow  more 
and  more  resentful  against  that  preacher  for  giving 
my  father  a  jolt  that  made  a  recluse  of  him.  Don't 
you  see?  That  one  thing  has  colored  my  personal 
attitude  toward  preachers  as  a  class.  I  can  never  meet 
a  minister  without  thinking  of  that  episode  which  has 
kept  me  here  where  I  never  see  another  white  woman, 
and  very  seldom  a  man.  It's  really  a  weak  spot  in  me, 
holding  a  grudge  like  that.  One  wouldn't  condemn 
carpenters  as  a  body  because  one  carpenter  botched 
a  house.  And  still  — " 

She  made  the  queer  little  gesture  with  her  hands  that 
he  had  noticed  before.     And  she  smiled  quite  pleasantly 
at  Mr.  Thompson  in  womanly  inconsistency  with  th 
attitude  she  had  just  been  explaining  she  held  towarc 
ministers. 

"  One  gets  such  silly  notions,"  she  remarked.  "  Jusl 
like  your  idea  that  you  can  come  here  and  do  good. 
You  can't,  you  know  —  not  for  others  —  not  by  your 
method.  It's  absurd.  One  can  help  others  most,  1 
really  believe,  by  helping  oneself.  I've  noticed  in  read- 


CERTAIN    PERPLEXITIES  77 

ing  of  the  phenomena  of  human  relations  that  the  most 
pronounced  idealists  are  frequently  a  sad  burden  to 
others." 

Mr.  Thompson  found  himself  at  a  loss  for  instant 
reply.  It  was  a  trifle  less  direct,  more  subtle  than  he 
liked.  It  opened  hazily  paths  of  speculation  he  had 
never  explored  because  generalizations  of  that  sort  had 
never  been  propounded  to  him  —  certainly  never  by  a 
young  woman  whose  very  physical  presence  disturbed 
him  sadly. 

And  while  he  was  turning  that  last  sentence  over 
uncomfortably  in  his  mind  a  hail  sounded  across  the 
meadow.  Sophie  stood  up  and  waved  the  tin  bucket 
she  had  in  her  hand.  Tommy  Ashe  came  striding  to 
ward  them.  He,  too,  carried  a  tin  bucket. 

"  We're  going  to  a  blackberry  patch  down  the 
creek,"  Sophie  answered  Thompson's  involuntary  look 
of  inquiry.  "  Get  a  pail  and  come  along." 

"  I  must  work,"  Thompson  shook  his  head. 

"  Berry-picking's  work,  if  work  is  what  you  want," 
she  retorted.  "  You'd  think  so  by  the  time  you'd 
picked  a  hundred  quarts  or  more  and  preserved  them 
for  winter  use.  But  then  I  suppose  your  winter  supply 
will  emanate  from  some  mysterious,  beneficent  source, 
without  any  effort  on  your  part.  How  fortunate  that 
will  be." 

She  tempered  this  sally  with  a  laugh,  and  being  pres 
ently  joined  by  Tommy  Ashe,  set  off  toward  the  bank 
of  Lone  Moose,  leaving  Mr.  Thompson  sitting  on  his 
log,  indulging  in  some  very  mixed  reflections. 

The  task  he  was  engaged  upon  seemed  suddenly  to 


78  BURNED    BRIDGES 

have  lost  its  savor.  Whether  this  arose  from  a  depress 
ing  sense  of  inability  to  deny  the  truth  of  much  that 
Sophie  Carr  had  just  said,  or  from  the  fact  that  as  he 
sat  there  looking  after  them  he  found  himself  envying 
Tommy  Ashe's  pleasant  intimacy  with  the  girl,  he  could 
not  say.  Indeed,  he  did  not  inquire  too  closely  of  him 
self.  Some  of  the  conclusions  he  was  latterly  arriving 
at  were  so  radically  different  from  what  he  was  accus 
tomed  to  accepting  that  he  was  a  little  bit  afraid  of 
them. 

It  took  him  a  considerable  time  to  get  back  into  a 
proper  working  frame  of  mind.  The  progress  of  his 
wooden  edifice  suffered  by  that  much.  When  he  went 
trudging  home  at  last,  sweaty  and  tired,  with  his  axe 
over  one  shoulder,  he  was  wondering  frankly  if,  after 
all,  it  was  either  wise  or  necessary  to  establish  a  mission 
at  Lone  Moose.  What  good  could  he  or  any  other  man 
possibly  do  there?  The  logical  and  proper  answer  to 
that  did  not  spring  as  readily  to  his  lips  as  it  would 
have  done  at  the  time  of  his  appointment  by  the  Board 
of  Home  Missions. 

Along  with  that  he  was  troubled  by  a  constant  recur 
rence  of  his  thoughts  to  Sophie  Carr.  Nor  was  it 
matter  of  wonder  at  her  bookish  knowledge,  her  aston 
ishing  vocabulary,  her  ability  to  think  and  to  express 
her  thoughts  concisely.  He  conceded  that  she  was  a 
remarkable  young  woman  in  that  respect.  It  was  not 
her  intellectual  capacity  which  concerned  him  greatly, 
but  the  sunny  aureole  of  her  hair,  the  smiling  curve  of 
her  lips,  the  willowy  pliancy  of  her  well-developed  body. 
Just  to  think  of  her  meant  a  colorful  picture,  a  vision 


CERTAIN    PERPLEXITIES  79 

that  filled  him  with  uneasy  restlessness,  with  vague  dis 
satisfaction,  with  certain  indefinable  longings. 

He  was  quite  unable  to  define  to  himself  the  purport 
of  these  remarkable  symptoms. 


CHAPTER  VII 

A  SLIP  OF  THE  AXE 

MR.  THOMPSON  gradually  became  aware  of  a  change 
in  the  season.  The  calendar  lost  a  good  deal  of  its 
significance  up  there,  partly  because  he  had  no  calendar 
and  partly  because  one  day  was  so  much  a  duplicate 
of  another  that  the  flitting  of  time  escaped  his  notice. 
But  he  became  conscious  that  the  days  grew  shorter, 
the  nights  a  shade  more  cool,  and  that  the  atmosphere 
was  taking  on  that  hazy,  mellow  stillness  which  makes 
Indian  Summer  a  period  of  rare  beauty  in  the  North. 
He  took  serious  stock  of  elapsed  time  then,  and  found 
to  his  surprise  that  it  was  September  the  fifteenth. 

He  had  not  accomplished  much.  The  walls  of  his 
church  stood  about  the  level  of  his  head.  It  grew  in 
creasingly  difficult  for  him  alone  to  hoist  the  logs  into 
place.  The  door  and  window  spaces  were  out  of  square. 
Without  help  he  did  not  see  how  he  was  going  to  rectify 
these  small  errors  and  get  the  roof  on.  Even  after  it 
should  be  roofed,  the  cracks  chinked  and  daubed  with 
mud,  the  doors  and  windows  in  place  —  what  then? 

He  would  still  lack  hearers  for  the  message  which  he 
daily  grew  a  little  more  doubtful  of  his  ability  to 
deliver.  A  native  streak  of  stubbornness  kept  him 
studying  the  language  along  with  his  daily  tussle  with 


A    SLIP    OF    THE    AXE  81 

the  axe  and  saw.  But  the  rate  of  his  progress  was 
such  that  he  pessimistically  calculated  that  it  would 
take  him  at  least  two  years  before  he  could  preach  with 
any  degree  of  understanding  in  the  Athabascan  tongue. 

So  far  he  had  never  gone  the  length  of  candidly  ask 
ing  himself  whether  by  then  it  would  be  a  task  he  could 
put  his  heart  into,  if  he  were  even  fitted  for  such  a  work, 
or  if  it  were  a  useful  and  worthy  task  if  he  were  gifted 
with  a  fitness  for  it.  He  had  been  taught  that  preach 
ing  the  gospel  was  a  divinely  appointed  function.  He 
had  not  questioned  that.  But  he  had  now  a  lively  sense 
of  difficulties  hitherto  unreckoned,  and  an  ill-stifled 
doubt  of  the  good  that  might  accrue.  His  blank  igno 
rance  of  the  salient  points  of  human  contact,  of  why 
men  work  and  play,  why  they  love  and  fight  and  marry 
and  bend  all  their  energies  along  certain  given  lines 
until  they  grow  old  and  gray  and  in  the  end  cease  to 
be,  only  served  to  bewilder  him.  His  association  with 
Tommy  Ashe  and  with  Carr  and  Carr's  daughter  — 
especially  with  Carr's  daughter  —  further  accentuated 
the  questioning  uncertainty  of  his  mind. 

But  that  was  all  —  merely  an  uncertainty  which  he 
tried  to  dissipate  by  prayer  and  stern  repression  of 
smoldering  doubts.  At  the  same  time  while  he  decried 
and  resented  their  outspoken  valuation  of  material  con 
siderations  he  found  himself  constantly  subject  to  those 
material  factors  of  daily  living. 

The  first  of  these  was  food.  When  Mr.  Thompson 
outfitted  himself  for  that  spiritual  invasion  of  Lone 
Moose  he  brought  in  four  months'  supplies.  He  dis 
covered  now  that  his  supply  of  certain  articles  was  not 


82  BURNED    BRIDGES 

so  adequate  as  he  had  been  told  it  would  be.  Also  he 
had  learned  from  Carr  and  Lachlan  that  if  a  man  win 
tered  at  Lone  Moose  it  was  well  to  bring  in  a  winter's 
grub  before  the  freeze-up  —  the  canoe  being  a  far  easier 
mode  of  transport  than  a  dog-team  and  sled. 

So  Thompson  stopped  his  building  activities  long 
enough  to  make  a  trip  to  Pachugan.  He  got  Lachlan's 
oldest  son  to  go  with  him.  His  quarterly  salary  was 
due,  and  he  had  a  rather  reluctant  report  of  his  work 
to  make.  With  the  money  he  would  be  able  to  replenish 
his  stock  of  sugar  and  tea  and  dried  fruit  and  flour. 
He  decided  too  that  he  would  have  to  buy  a  gun  and 
learn  to  use  it  as  the  source  of  his  meat  supply. 

His  sublime  confidence  in  the  organization  which  had 
sent  him  there  suffered  a  decided  shock  when  he  reached 
Fort  Pachugan,  and  found  no  remittance  awaiting  him. 
There  was  a  letter  from  the  Board  secretary  breathing 
exhortations  which  sounded  rather  hollow  in  conjunc 
tion  with  the  absence  of  funds.  Mr.  Thompson,  for 
the  first  time  in  his  career,  found  himself  badly  in  need 
of  money,  irritated  beyond  measure  by  its  lack,  pain 
fully  cognizant  of  its  value.  But  he  was  too  diffident 
to  suggest  a  credit  on  the  strength  of  the  cheque  which, 
upon  reflection,  he  decided  was  merely  delayed  in  the 
more  or  less  uncertain  mails.  He  could  make  shift 
with  what  he  had  for  another  month.  Nor  did  he 
mention  this  slight  difficulty  to  MacLeod. 

That  gentleman  had  greeted  him  heartily  enough. 

"  Man,  but  ye  look  as  if  the  country  agreed  wi*  you," 
he  observed,  after  an  appraising  glance.  "  How  goes 
the  good  work  at  Lone  Moose?  " 


A    SLIP    OF    THE    AXE  83 

"  There  are  difficulties,"  Thompson  responded  with 
an  unintentional  touch  of  ambiguity.  "  But  I  daresay 
I'll  manage  in  time  to  overcome  them." 

He  discovered  in  himself  a  disinclination  to  talk  about 
his  labors  in  that  field. 

MacLeod  smiled  and  forbore  to  press  the  subject. 
There  were  sundry  parcels  for  Sam  Carr,  a  letter  or 
two,  and  a  varied  assortment  of  magazines.  Thomp 
son  took  these,  after  tarrying  overnight  at  the  post, 
and  started  home,  refusing  MacLeod's  cordial  invita 
tion  to  stay  over  a  day  or  two.  He  would  be  back 
again  when  the  next  mail  was  due,  a  matter  of  four  or 
five  weeks.  And  late  that  same  evening,  by  dint  of  a 
favorable  breeze  that  kept  the  canoe  flying,  and  some 
hard  pulling  up  Lone  Moose  Creek,  Thompson  and  the 
breed  boy  reached  home. 

Young  Lachlan  went  off  to  his  cabin.  Mr.  Thomp 
son  conscientiously  lugged  the  assortment  of  parcels 
and  magazines  over  to  Sam  Carr's  house,  duly  deliv 
ered  the  three  letters  to  Carr  himself,  and  —  for  reasons- 
that  he  could  not  define  as  anything  but  an  unwarrant 
able  access  of  shyness  —  declining  the  first  invitation 
he  had  ever  received  to  break  bread  at  Carr's  table, 
hurried  back  to  his  own  primitive  quarters.  Perhaps 
the  fact  that  Sophie  Carr,  curled  up  in  a  big  chair, 
smiled  at  him  in  a  way  that  made  his  pulses  quicken 
had  something  to  do  with  his  hasty  retreat.  He  was 
wary  of  the  impulses  and  emotions  she  never  failed  to 
stir  in  him  when  he  was  near  her.  There  were  times 
when  he  suspected  that  she  was  aware  of  this  power  — 
which  in  his  naive  conception  of  women  he  believed 


«4  BURNED    BRIDGES 

almost  uncanny  in  her  —  and  that  she  amused  herself 
by  exercising  it  upon  him.     And  he  resented  that. 

So  he  did  not  stay  long  enough  to  observe  Carr  lay 
two  of  his  letters  on  the  table  after  a  brief  glance,  and 
sit  looking  fixedly  at  the  third,  which  by  the  length  of 
envelope  and  thickness  of  enclosure  might  conceivably 
have  contained  some  document  of  a  legal  or  official 
nature. 

Carr  looked  at  this  letter  a  long  time  before  he  tore 
it  open.     He  took  a  still  longer  time  to  peruse  its  con 
tents.     He  sat  for  several  minutes  thereafter  turning 
the  sheets  over  and  over  in  his  lean  fingers,  until  in 
fact  he  became  aware  that  his  daughters  eyes  were 
fixed  on  him  with  a  lively  curiosity  in  their  gray  depths. 
"  What  is  it,  Dad?  "  she  asked,  as  he  tucked  envelope 
and  foolscap  pages  into  the  inside  pocket  of  his  coat. 
"  Oh,  nothing  much,"  he  said  shortly. 
But  he  leaned  back   in  his   chair  and  immediately 
became  absorbed  in  thought  that  accentuated  the  multi 
tude   of  fine  lines   about  his  eyes   and  drew  his   lips 
together  in  a  narrow  line.     Sophie  sat  regarding  him 
with  a  look  of  wonder. 

This  trifling  incident,  naturally,  did  not  come  under 
the  notice  of  Mr.  Thompson.  Conceivably  he  would  not 
have  noticed  had  he  been  present,  nor  have  been  in  any 
degree  interested. 

He  was,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  fully  occupied  at  that 
precise  moment  with  the  painful  and  disagreeable  con 
sequences  of  attempting  to  split  kindling  by  lantern 
light.  To  be  specific  the  axe  had  glanced  and  cut  a 
deep  gash  in  one  side  of  his  foot. 


A    SLIP    OF    THE    AXE  85 

At  about  the  particular  moment  in  which  Sam  Carr 
leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  fell  into  that  brown  study 
of  a  matter  that  was  to  have  a  far-reaching  effect,  Mr. 
Thompson  was  seated  on  his  haunches  on  his  cabin 
floor,  his  hands  stained  with  blood  and  a  considerable 
trail  of  red  marking  his  progress  from  woodpile  to 
cabin.  His  face  was  white,  and  his  hands  rather  shaky 
by  the  time  he  finished  binding  up  the  wound.  The  cut 
stung  and  burned.  When  he  essayed  to  move  he  found 
himself  quite  effectually  crippled. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  twenty-five  years  of  carefully 
directed  existence  Mr.  Thompson  swore  a  loud,  round, 
Anglo-Saxon  oath.  Whether  this  relieved  his  pent-up 
feelings  or  not  he  appeared  to  suffer  no  remorse  for  the 
burst  of  profanity.  Instead,  he  rose  and  limped  pain 
fully  about  the  building  of  a  fire  and  the  preparation 
of  his  supper. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

AND  THE  FEUITS  THEREOF 

MR.  THOMPSON  slept  fitfully  that  night.  A  hard 
day's  paddling  had  left  him  tired  and  sleepy,  but  the 
swarm  of  pain-devils  in  his  slashed  foot  destroyed  his 
rest.  When  he  got  up  at  daylight  and  examined  the 
wound  again  he  found  himself  afflicted  with  a  badly 
swollen  foot  and  ankle,  and  a  steady  dull  ache  that 
extended  upward  past  the  knee.  He  was  next  to  help 
less  since  every  movement  produced  the  most  acute  sort 
of  pain  —  sufficiently  so  that  when  he  had  made  shift  to 
get  some  breakfast  he  could  scarcely  eat.  In  the  course 
of  his  experiments  in  self -aid  he  discovered  that  to  lie 
flat  on  his  back  with  the  slashed  foot  raised  higher  than 
his  body  gave  a  measure  of  ease.  So  he  adopted  this 
position  and  stoically  set  out  to  endure  the  hurt.  He 
lay  in  that  position  the  better  part  of  the  day  —  until, 
in  fact,  four  in  the  afternoon  brought  Sam  Carr,  shot 
gun  in  hand,  to  his  door. 

Carr  had  seldom  been  in  the  cabin.  This  evening, 
for  some  reason,  he  put  his  head  in  the  door,  and 
whistled  softly  at  sight  of  Thompson's  bandaged  foot 
cocked  up  on  a  folded  overcoat. 

"  Well,  well,"  he  said,  standing  his  gun  against  the 
door  casing  and  coming  in.  "  What  have  you  done  to 
yourself  now?  " 


-  AND    THE    FRUITS    THEREOF          87 

"  Oh,  I  cut  my  foot  with  the  axe  last  night,  worse 
luck,"  Thompson  responded  petulantly. 

"  Bad?  "  Carr  inquired. 

"  Bad  enough." 

"  Let  me  see  it,"  Carr  suggested.  "  It's  a  long  way 
to  a  sawbones,  and  Providence  never  seems  quite  able  to 
cope  with  germs  of  infection.  Have  you  any  sort  of 
antiseptic  dressing  on  it?  " 

Thompson  shook  his  head.  He  would  not  confess 
that  the  pain  and  swelling  had  caused  him  certain  mis 
givings,  brought  to  his  mind  uneasily  a  good  deal  that 
he  had  read  and  heard  of  blood-poisoning  from  cuts  and 
scratches.  He  was  secretly  glad  to  let  Carr  undo  the 
rude  bandage  and  examine  the  wound.  A  man  who  had 
spent  fifteen  years  in  the  wilderness  must  have  had  to 
cope  with  similar  cases. 

"  You  did  give  yourself  a  nasty  nick  and  no  mistake," 
Carr  observed.  "  You  won't  walk  on  that  foot  com 
fortably  for  two  or  three  weeks.  Just  grazed  a  bone. 
No  carbolic,  no  peroxide,  or  anything  like  that,  I 
suppose  ?  " 

Thompson  shook  his  head.  He  had  not  reckoned  on 
cuts  and  bruises.  Carr  put  back  the  wrapping  and  sat 
whittling  shavings  of  tobacco  off  a  brown  plug,  while 
Thompson  got  up,  hopped  on  one  foot  across  to  the 
stove  and  began  to  lay  a  fire.  He  had  eaten  nothing 
since  morning,  and  was  correspondingly  hungry.  In 
addition,  a  certain  unministerial  pride  stirred  him  to 
action.  He  was  ashamed  to  lie  supinely  enduring,  to 
seem  helpless  before  another  man's  eyes.  But  the  effort 
showed  in  his  face. 


BURNED    BRIDGES 

Can*  lit  his  pipe  and  watched  silently.  His  gaze 
took  in  every  detail  of  the  cabin's  interior,  of  Thomp 
son's  painful  movements,  of  the  poorly  cooked  remains 
of  breakfast  that  he  was  warming  up. 

"  You'll  put  that  foot  in  a  bad  way  if  you  try  to 
use  it  much,"  he  said  at  last.  "  The  best  thing  you  can 
do  is  to  come  home  with  me  and  lie  around  till  you  can 
walk  again.  I've  got  stuff  to  dress  it  properly.  Think 
you  can  hobble  across  the  clearing  if  I  make  you  a 
temporary  crutch?" 

Thompson  at  first  declined  to  be  such  a  source  of 
trouble.  He  was  grateful  enough,  but  reluctant. 
Carr,  however,  went  about  it  in  a  way  that  permitted 
nothing  short  of  a  boorish  refusal,  and  presently  Mr. 
Thompson  found  himself,  with  a  crutch  made  of  a 
forked  willow,  crossing  the  meadow  to  Sam  Carr's 
house. 

His  instincts  had  more  or  less  subconsciously  warned 
him  that  it  would  not  be  well  for  his  peace  of  mind  or 
the  good  of  his  soul  to  be  in  intimate  daily  contact  with 
Sophie  Carr.  But  his  general  inability  to  cope  with 
emergencies  —  which  was  patent  enough  to  a  practical 
man  if  not  wholly  so  to  himself  —  culminating  in  this 
•misadventure  with  a  sharp  axe,  had  brought  about  that 
-very  circumstance. 

He  had  not  looked  for  such  a  kindly  office  on  the  part 
•of  Sam  Carr.  That  individual's  caustic  utterances  and 
critical  attitude  toward  theology  had  not  forewarned 
"Thompson  that  sympathy  and  kindliness  were  funda 
mental  attributes  with  Sam  Carr.  If  he  had  an  acid 
tongue  his  heart  was  tender  enough.  But  Carr  was 


—  AND    THE    FRUITS    THEREOF          89 

no  sentimentalist.     When  he  had  bestowed  Thompson 

a  comfortable  room  and  painstakingly  dressed  the 
ijured  foot  he  left  his  patient  much  to  his  own  devices 
—  and  to  the  ministrations  of  his  daughter. 

As  a  consequence,  while  the  wound  in  his  foot  healed 
rapidly,  Mr.  Thompson  suffered  a  more  grievous  injury 
to  his  heart.  Sophie  Carr  affected  him  much  as  strong 
drink  affects  men  with  weak  heads.  The  more  he  saw 
of  her  the  more  he  desired  to  see,  to  feast  his  eyes  on  her 
loveliness  —  and  invariably,  when  alone,  to  berate  him 
self  for  such  a  weakness.  He  had  never  dreamed  that 
a  man  could  feel  that  way  about  a  woman.  He  did  not 
see  why  he,  of  all  men,  should  succumb  to  the  fascina 
tion  of  a  girl  like  Sophie  Carr. 

But  the  emotion  was  undeniable.  Perhaps  Sophie 
would  have  been  surprised  if  she  could  have  known  the 
amount  of  repression  Mr.  Thompson  gradually  became 
compelled  to  practice  when  she  was  with  him. 

That  was  frequently  enough.  They  were  all  good  to 
him.  From  Carr's  Indian  woman  —  who  could,  he  now 
learned,  speak  passable  English  —  down  to  the  sloe- 
eyed  youngest  Carr  of  mixed  blood,  they  accepted  him 
as  one  of  themselves.  However,  it  happened  to  be 
Sophie  who  waited  on  him  most,  who  impishly  took  the 
greatest  liberties  with  him,  who  was  never  averse  to 
an  argument  on  any  subject  Thompson  cared  to  touch. 
He  had  never  supposed  there  was  a  normal  being  with 
views  on  religion  and  economics,  upon  any  manifesta 
tion  of  human  problems,  with  views  so  contrary  to  his 
own.  The  maddening  part  of  it  was  her  ability  to  cite 
facts  and  authorities  whose  existence  he  was  not  aware 


go  BURNED    BRIDGES 

of,  to  confute  him  with  logic  and  compel  him  to  admit 
that  he  did  not  know,  that  much  of  what  he  asserted 
so  emphatically  was  based  on  mere  belief  rather  than 
demonstrable  fact  or  rational  processes  of  arriving  at 
a  conclusion.  Sometimes  both  Sam  Carr  and  Tommy 
Ashe  were  present  at  these  oral  tilts,  sitting  back  in 
silent  amusement  at  Mr.  Thompson's  intellectual 
floundering. 

A  clean  cut  in  the  flesh  of  a  healthy  man  heals 
quickly.  In  two  weeks  Thompson  could  put  his  full 
weight  on  the  injured  member  without  pain  or  any 
tendency  to  reopening  the  wound.  Whereupon  he  re 
paired  to  his  cabin  again,  in  a  state  of  mind  that  was 
very  disturbing.  Without  accepting  any  of  the  Carr 
dictums  upon  theology  and  theological  activities,  he 
was  fast  growing  doubtful  of  his  fitness  for  the  job  of 
herding  other  people  into  the  fold.  He  found  himself 
with  a  growing  disinclination  for  such  a  task  as  his 
life  work.  Since  that  was  the  only  thing  he  had  any 
aptitude  for  or  training  in,  when  he  thought  of  cutting 
loose  and  facing  the  world  at  large  without  the  least 
idea  of  what  he  should  do  or  how  he  should  do  it,  he 
perceived  himself  in  a  good  deal  of  a  dilemma. 

He  was  growing  sure  of  one  thing.  Over  and  above 
the  good  of  his  soul  and  other  people's  souls,  a  man 
must  eat  —  to  put  it  baldly.  He  should  earn  his  keep. 
He  must  indeed  calculate  upon  provision  for  two.  Mr. 
Thompson  had  made  the  common  mistake  of  believing 
himself  self-sufficient,  and  Sophie  Carr  had  unwit 
tingly  taught  him  that  a  male  celibate  was  an  anomaly 
in  nature's  reckoning.  He  had  thought  himself  immune 


—  AND    THE    FRUITS    THEREOF          91 

from  the  ordinary  passions  of  humanity.  The  strang 
est  part  of  it  was  a  saddened  gladness  that  he  was  not. 
Somehow,  he  did  not  want  to  be  a  spiritual  superman. 
He  would  rather  love  and  struggle  and  suffer  than 
stand  aloof,  thanking  God  that  he  was  not,  like  the 
Pharisees,  as  other  men.  Sitting  moodily  by  his  rusty 
stove  he  confessed  to  himself  that  a  man  who  would 
gladly  give  up  his  hopes  of  eternal  salvation  for  the 
privilege  of  folding  Sophie  Carr  close  in  his  arms  had 
no  business  in  the  ministry  —  unless  he  simply  wanted 
to  hold  down  an  easy,  salaried  job. 

Whatever  other  sorts  of  a  fool  he  might  have  been 
Thompson  was  no  hypocrite.  He  had  never  consciously 
looked  upon  the  ministry  as  a  man  looks  upon  a  busi 
ness  career  —  a  succession  of  steps  to  success,  to  an 
assured  social  and  financial  position.  Yet  when  he 
turned  the  searchlight  of  analysis  upon  his  motives  he 
could  not  help  seeing  that  this  was  the  very  thing  he 
had  unwittingly  been  doing  —  that  he  had  expected  and 
hoped  for  his  progress  through  missionary  work  and 
small  churches  eventually  to  bestow  upon  him  a  call  to 
a  wider  field  —  a  call  which  Sam  Carr  had  callously 
suggested  meant  neither  more  nor  less  than  a  bigger 
church,  a  wider  social  circle,  a  bigger  salary.  And 
Thompson  could  see  that  he  had  been  looking  forward 
to  these  things  as  a  just  reward,  and  he  could  see  too 
how  the  material  benefits  in  them  were  the  lure.  He 
had  been  coached  and  primed  for  that.  His  inclination 
had  been  sedulously  directed  into  that  channel.  His 
enthusiasm  had  been  the  enthusiasm  of  one  who  seeks 
to  serve  and  feels  wholly  competent. 


92  BURNED    BRIDGES 

But  he  doubted  both  his  fitness  and  his  inclination 
now.  He  said  to  himself  that  when  a  man  loses  heart 
in  his  work  he  should  abandon  that  work.  He  tried  to 
muster  up  a  resentful  feeling  against  Sophie  Carr  for 
the  emotional  havoc  she  had  wrought,  and  the  best  he 
could  do  was  a  despairing  pang  of  loneliness.  He 
wanted  her.  Above  all  he  wanted  her.  And  she  was 
a  rank  infidel  —  a  crass  materialist  —  an  intellectual 
Circe.  Why,  in  the  name  of  God,  he  asked  himself 
passionately,  must  he  lose  his  heart  so  fully  to  a  woman 
with  whom  he  could  have  nothing  more  in  common  save 
the  common  factor  that  she  was  a  woman  and  he  a  man. 

Mr.  Thompson  had  not  as  yet  discovered  what  a 
highly  important  factor  that  last  was. 

He  managed  to  get  a  partial  insight  into  that  some 
three  days  later,  and  the  vision  was  vouchsafed  him  in 
a  simple  and  natural  manner,  although  to  him  at  the 
time  it  seemed  the  most  wonderful  and  unaccountable 
thing  in  the  world. 


CHAPTER  IX 

UNIVERSAL  ATTRIBUTES 

AFTERWARD  Thompson  could  never  quite  determine 
what  prompted  him  to  follow  Sophie  Carr  when  he  saw 
her  go  down  toward  the  creek  bank.  He  was  on  his 
way  to  Carr's  house,  driven  thither  by  pure  pressure  of 
loneliness,  born  of  three  days'  solitary  communion 
within  the  limits  of  his  own  shack.  He  wanted  to  hear 
a  human  voice  again.  And  it  was  a  vagrant,  unac 
countable  impulse  that  sent  him  after  Sophie  instead 
of  directing  him  straight  to  Carr's  living  room,  where 
her  father  would  probably  be  sitting,  pipe  in  mouth, 
book  in  hand. 

He  hurried  with  long  strides  after  Sophie.  She 
dipped  below  the  sloping  bank  before  he  came  up,  and 
when  he  came  noiselessly  down  to  the  grassy  bank  she 
stood  leaning  against  a  tree,  gazing  at  the  sluggish 
flow  of  Lone  Moose. 

He  had  seen  her  in  moods  that  varied  from  feminine 
pettishness  to  the  teasingly  mischievous.  But  he  had 
never  seen  her  in  quite  the  same  pitch  of  spirits  that 
caught  his  attention  as  soon  as  he  reached  her  side. 

There  was  something  bubbling  within  her,  some  re 
pressed  excitement  that  kindled  a  glow  in  her  gray  eyes, 
kept  a  curiously  happy  smile  playing  about  her  lips. 


94  BURNED    BRIDGES 

And  that  magnetic  something  that  drew  the  heart  out 
of  Thompson,  afflicting  him  with  a  maddening  surge  of 
impulses,  had  never  functioned  so  strongly. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked  abruptly.  "You  seem  — 
you  look  — " 

He  stopped  short.  It  was  not  what  he  meant  to  say. 
He  tried  to  avoid  the  intimately  personal  when  he  was 
with  her.  He  knew  the  danger  of  those  sweet  familiar 
ities  —  to  himself.  But  he  had  blurted  out  the  question 
before  he  was  aware.  He  was  standing  so  close  to  her 
that  a  little  whirling  breeze  blew  a  strand  of  her  yellow 
hair  across  his  face.  That  tenuous  contact  made  him 
quiver,  gave  him  a  queer  intoxicating  thrill. 

"  Does  it  show  so  plainly  as  that? "  she  smiled. 
"  It's  a  secret.  A  really  wonderful  secret.  I'm  just 
bursting  to  talk  about  it,  but  I  mustn't.  Talking  might 
break  the  spell.  Do  you  —  along  with  your  other 
naive  beliefs  —  believe  in  spells,  Mr.  Thompson?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  answered  simply.     "  In  yours." 

Her  eyes  danced.  She  laughed  softly,  deep  in  her 
throat,  like  a  meadow  lark  in  spring. 

"  That's  the  first  time  I  ever  knew  you  to  indulge  in 
irony,"  she  said. 

"  It  isn't  irony,"  he  answered  moodily.  "  It's  the 
honest  truth." 

"  Poor  man,"  she  said  gaily.  "  I'd  be  flattered  to 
death  to  think  a  simple  backwoods  maiden  could  make 
such  a  profound  impression  on  a  young  man  from  the 
city  —  but  it  isn't  so." 

She  turned  her  head  sidewise,  like  a  saucy  bird,  re 
garding  him  with  mock  gravity,  a  mischievous  sparkle 


UNIVERSAL    ATTRIBUTES  95 

in  her  eyes.  Mr.  Thompson  had  a  long  arm  and  he 
stood  close  to  her,  tantalizingly  close.  She  was  smil 
ing.  Her  lips  parted  redly  over  white,  even  teeth,  and 
as  Thompson  bent  that  moody  somber  gaze  on  her, 
her  breath  seemed  to  come  suddenly  a  little  faster,  mak 
ing  her  round  breast  flutter  —  and  a  faint  tinge  of  pink 
stole  up  to  color  the  soft  whiteness  of  her  neck,  up  into 
the  smooth  round  of  her  cheeks. 

Thompson's  arm  closed  about  her,  his  lips  grazed 
her  cheek  as  she  twisted  her  head  to  evade  him.  That 
minor  show  of  resistance  stirred  all  the  primitive  in 
stincts  that  active  or  dormant  lurk  in  every  strong  man. 
He  twisted  her  head  roughly,  and  as  naturally  as  water 
flows  down  hill  their  lips  met.  He  felt  the  girl's  body 
nestle  with  a  little  tremor  closer  to  his,  felt  with  an  odd 
exaltation  the  quick  hammer  of  her  heart  against  his 
breast.  He  held  her  tight,  and  her  face  slowly  drew 
iway  from  him,  and  turned  shyly  against  his  shoulder. 
"  It  is  so,  and  you  know  it's  so,"  he  whispered 
loarsely.  "  Sophie,  I  wish  — " 

She  freed  herself  from  his  embrace  with  a  sudden 
rist.  Her  breath  went  out  in  a  little  gasp.  She 
)ked  over  her  shoulder  once,  and  up  at  Thompson, 
id  a  wave  of  red  swept  up  over  her  fresh  young  face 
id  dyed  it  to  the  roots  of  her  sunny  hair.  For  a  brief 
stant  her  hand  lingered  in  Thompson's,  bestowing  a 
quick  and  tender  pressure.  Then  she  was  gone  up  the 
bank  with  a  bound  like  a  startled  deer. 

Thompson  turned.  Ten  yards  out  in  the  stream 
Tommy  Ashe's  red  canoe  drifted,  and  Tommy  sat  in 
the  stern,  his  wet  paddle  poised  as  if  he  had  halted  it 


p6  BURNED    BRIDGES 

midway  of  a  stroke,  his  body  bent  forward,  tense  as 
that  of  a  beast  crouched  to  spring. 

The  bow  of  the  canoe  grounded.  Ashe  laid  down  his 
paddle,  stepped  forward  and  ashore,  hauling  the  craft's 
nose  high  with  one  hand.  His  gaze  never  left  Thomp 
son's  face.  He  came  slowly  up,  his  round,  boyish  coun 
tenance  white  and  hard  and  ugly,  his  eyes  smoldering. 

Thompson  felt  his  own  face  hardening  into  the  same 
ugly  lines.  He  felt  himself  threatened.  Without 
being  fully  aware  of  his  act  he  had  dropped  into  a 
belligerent  pose,  head  and  shoulders  thrust  forward, 
one  foot  drawn  back,  hands  clenched.  This  was  purely 
instinctive.  That  Tommy  Ashe  had  seen  him  kiss 
Sophie  Carr  and  was  advancing  upon  him  in  jealous 
fury  did  not  occur  to  Thompson  at  all. 

"  You  beggar,"  Ashe  gritted,  "  is  it  part  of  your 
system  of  saving  souls  to  kiss  a  girl  as  if  — " 

The  quality  of  his  tone  would  have  stung  a  less  sensi 
tive  man.  With  Sophie  Carr's  lip-pressure  fresh  and 
warm  upon  his  own  Thompson  was  in  that  exalted  mood 
wherein  a  man  is  like  an  open  powder  keg.  And  Tommy 
Ashe  had  supplied  the  spark.  A  most  unchristian 
flash  of  anger  shot  through  him.  His  reply  was  an 
earnest,  if  ill-directed  blow.  This  Tommy  dodged  by 
the  simplest  expedient  of  twisting  his  head  sidewise 
without  moving  his  body,  and  launched  at  the  same  time 
a  return  jab  which  neatly  smacked  against  Thompson's 
jaw. 

Tommy  Ashe  was  wonderfully  quick  on  his  feet  and 
a  powerful  man  to  boot.  Moreover  he  had  a  certain 
dexterity  with  his  fists.  He  was  in  deadly  earnest,  as 


UNIVERSAL    ATTRIBUTES  97 

a  man  is  when  matters  of  sex  lead  him  to  a  personal 
clash.  But  he  found  pitted  against  him  a  man  equally 
powerful,  a  man  whose  extra  reach  and  weight  offset 
the  advantage  in  skill,  a  man  who  gave  and  took  blows 
with  silent  ferocity. 

Thompson,  in  all  his  carefully  ordered  life,  had  never 
fought.  He  fought  now  as  if  his  life  depended  upon  it. 
Each  blow  he  gave  and  took  brought  to  the  surface  a 
furious  determination.  He  was  not  conscious  of  real 
pain,  although  he  knew  that  his  lips  were  cut  and 
bleeding,  that  his  cheeks  were  bruised  and  cut  where 
Tommy  Ashe's  hard-knuckled  fists  landed  with  impres 
sive  force,  that  his  heart  pounded  sickeningly  against 
his  ribs,  and  that  every  breath  was  a  rasping  gasp. 
Nor  was  he  conscious  of  pity  when  he  saw  that  Tommy 
Ashe  was  in  no  better  case.  It  seemed  fit  and  proper 
that  they  should  struggle  like  that.  There  was  a 
strange  sort  of  pleasure  in  it.  It  seemed  natural,  as 
natural  an  act  as  he  had  ever  performed.  The  shock 
of  his  clenched  fist  driven  with  all  his  force  against  the 
other  man's  body  thrilled  him,  gave  him  a  curious  satis 
faction.  And  that  satisfaction  took  on  a  keener  edge 
when  Ashe  clinched  and  they  fell  to  the  earth  a  strug 
gling,  squirming  heap  —  for  Thompson  felt  a  tremen 
dous  power  in  his  arms,  in  those  arms  covered  with  flat 
elastic  bands  of  muscle  hardened  by  weeks  of  axe-sling 
ing,  of  heaving  on  heavy  logs.  He  wrapped  his  arms 
about  Ashe  and  tried  to  crush  him. 

One  trial  of  that  fierce  grip  enlightened  Tommy  Ashe. 
He  broke  loose  from  Thompson  by  a  trick  known  to 
every  man  who  has  ever  wrestled,  and  clawed  away  to 


9»  BURNED    BRIDGES 

his  feet.  Thereafter  he  kept  clear  of  grips.  Quick, 
with  some  skill  at  boxing,  he  could  get  home  two  blows  to 
Thompson's  one.  But  he  could  not  down  his  man. 
Nor  could  Thompson.  They  struck  and  parried,  cir 
cling  and  dodging,  till  their  lungs  were  on  fire,  and 
neither  had  strength  enough  left  to  strike  a  telling  blow. 

The  rage  had  gone  out  of  them  by  then.  It  had 
become  a  dogged  struggle  for  mastery.  And  failing 
that,  there  came  a  moment  when  they  staggered  apart 
and  stood  glaring  at  each  other,  choking  for  breath. 
As  they  stood,  Tommy  Ashe  spoke  first. 

"  You're  a  tough  bird  —  for  a  parson." 

He  gasped  the  words. 

With  the  dying  out  of  that  senseless  fury  a  peculiar 
feeling  of  elation  came  to  Thompson,  as  if  he  had  proved 
himself  upon  a  doubtful  matter.  He  was  ready  to  go 
on.  But  why?  That  question  urged  itself  upon  him. 
He  recalled  that  he  had  struck  the  first  blow. 

"  I  think  —  I  started  this,  didn't  I  ?  "  he  said.  "  I'm 
willing  to  finish  it,  if  you  want  to  —  but  isn't  it  —  isn't 
it  rather  foolish?  " 

"  No  end  foolish.  Don't  think  we'd  ever  finish," 
Ashe  said  with  a  gleam  of  his  old  humor.  "  Let's  call 
it  a  draw.  I  feel  a  bit  ashamed  of  myself  by  now." 

Somewhere,  sometime,  Mr.  Thompson  had  heard  that 
men  who  fought  shook  hands  when  the  struggle  was 
ended  —  a  little  ceremony  that  served  to  restore  the 
status  quo.  He  had  not  the  least  rancor  against 
Tommy  Ashe.  It  had  all  seeped  away  in  the  blind  fury 
of  that  clash.  He  thrust  out  a  hand  upon  which  the 
knuckles  were  cut  and  bloody.  And  the  man  upon 


UNIVERSAL    ATTRIBUTES  99 

whose  countenance  he  had  bruised  those  knuckles  took 
it  with  a  wry  self-conscious  smile. 

Then  they  drew  a  little  apart  and  squatted  on  the 
bank  of  the  creek  to  lave  their  battered  faces  in  the  cold 
water. 

For  a  period  of  possibly  five  minutes  they  sat  dab 
bling  water-soaked  handkerchiefs  upon  their  faces. 
The  blood  ceased  to  ooze  from  Thompson's  nostrils. 
Tommy  Ashe  looked  over  at  his  late  antagonist  and 
remarked  casually. 

"  We're  a  pair  of  capital  idiots,  eh,  Thompson?  " 

Mr.  Thompson  tried  to  smile.  But  his  countenance 
was  swelling  rapidly  and  was  in  no  condition  for  smil 
ing.  He  mustered  up  a  grimace,  nodding  assent. 

"  I  hope  Sophie  didn't  see  us  making  such  asses  of 
ourselves,"  Tommy  continued  ruefully. 

"  I  hardly  think  she  would,"  Thompson  returned. 
"  It  couldn't  have  been  the  sort  of  spectacle  a  woman 
would  care  to  watch." 

"  You  never  can  tell  about  a  woman,"  Ashe  observed 
thoughtfully.  "  Nor,"  he  added,  "  a  man.  I  could 
never  have  imagined  myself  going  off  half-cocked  like 
that.  I  suppose  the  primitive  brute  in  us  is  never  really 
far  from  the  surface.  Especially  in  this  country. 
There's  something,"  he  looked  up  at  the  surrounding 
depths  of  forest,  down  along  the  dusky  channel  of 
Lone  Moose,  curving  away  among  the  spruce,  "  there's 
something  about  this  infernal  solitude  that  brings  out 
the  savage.  I've  noticed  it  in  little  things.  We're 
loosed,  in  a  way,  from  all  restraint,  except  what  we 
put  upon  ourselves.  Funny  world,  eh?  You  couldn't 


ioo  BURNED    BRIDGES 

imagine  two  chaps  like  us  mauling  each  other  like  a 
pair  of  bruisers  in  Mrs.  Grundy's  drawing-room,  could 
you?  Over  a  girl  —  oh,  well,  it'll  be  all  the  same  a 
hundred  years  from  now." 

There  was  nothing  apologetic  in  either  Tommy's  tone 
or  words.  Thompson  understood.  Tommy  Ashe  was 
thinking  out  loud,  that  was  all.  And  presently,  after 
another  silent  interval,  he  stood  up. 

"  I  think  I'll  be  getting  back  to  my  own  diggings,' 
he  said.  "  So  long,  old  man." 

He  nodded,  pushed  off  his  canoe  and  stepped  aboard. 
In  a  minute  he  was  gone  around  the  bend,  driving  the 
red  canoe  with  slow,  deliberate  strokes. 

Mr.  Thompson  gave  over  musing  upon  Tommy  Ashe 
and  Tommy's  words  and  attitude,  and  began  to  take 
stock  of  himself.  It  seemed  to  him  that  Tommy  Ashe 
felt  ashamed  of  himself,  whereas  by  all  the  precepts  of 
his  earlier  life  and  the  code  he  had  assimilated  during 
that  formative  period  he,  Wesley  Thompson,  was  the 
one  who  should  suffer  a  sense  of  shame.  And  he  felt 
no  shame.  On  the  contrary  he  experienced  nothing 
more  than  an  astonishing  feeling  of  exhilaration.  Why, 
he  could  not  determine.  It  was  un-Christian,  undig 
nified,  brutal,  to  give  and  take  blows,  to  feel  that 
vicious  determination  to  smash  another  man  with  his 
bare  fists,  to  know  the  unholy  joy  of  getting  a  blow 
home  with  all  the  weight  of  his  body  behind  it.  Mr. 
Thompson  was  a  trifle  dazed,  a  trifle  uncertain.  His 
face  was  puffed  out  of  its  natural  contours,  and  very 
tender  in  spots  to  touch.  He  knew  that  he  must  be  a 
eight.  There  was  a  grievous  stiffness  creeping  over 


UNIVERSAL 


his  arms  and  shoulders,  an  ache  in  his  ribs,  as  his 
heated  body  began  to  cool.  But  he  was  not  sorry  for 
anything.  He  experienced  no  regrets.  Only  a  heady 
feeling  that  for  once  in  his  life  he  had  met  an  emer 
gency  and  had  been  equal  to  the  demand. 

Perhaps  the  sweet  memory  of  Sophie  Carr's  warm 
lips  on  his  had  something  to  do  with  this. 

At  any  rate  he  rose  after  a  little  and  followed  the 
creek  bank  to  a  point  well  down  stream,  whence  he 
crossed  through  the  fringe  of  timber  to  his  cabin. 


CHAPTER  X 

.  THE  WAY  OF  A  MAID  WITH  A  MAN 

BETWEEN  the  queer  mixture  of  emotions  which  beset 
him  and  the  discomfort  of  his  bruised  face  and  over 
strained  body  Thompson  turned  and  twisted,  and  sleep 
withheld  its  restful  oblivion  until  far  in  the  night.  As 
a  consequence  he  slept  late.  Dawn  had  grown  old 
before  he  wakened. 

When  he  opened  his  cabin  door  he  was  confronted 
by  the  dourest  aspect  of  the  north  that  he  had  yet  seen. 
The  sky  was  banked  full  of  slate-gray  clouds  scudding 
low  before  a  northeast  wind  that  droned  its  melancholy 
song  in  the  swaying  spruce  tops,  a  song  older  than  the 
sorrows  of  men,  the  essence  of  all  things  forlorn  in  its 
minor  cadences.  A  gray,  clammy  day,  tinged  with 
the  chill  breath  of  coming  snow.  Thompson  missed  the 
sun  that  had  cheered  and  warmed  those  hushed  soli 
tudes.  Just  to  look  at  that  dull  sky  and  to  hear  the 
wind  that  was  fast  stripping  the  last  sere  leaves  from 
willow  and  maple  and  birch,  and  to  feel  that  indefinable 
touch  of  harshness,  the  first  frigid  fingerings  of  the 
frost-gods  in  the  air,  gave  him  a  swift  touch  of  depres 
sion.  He  shivered  a  little.  Turning  to  his  wood  box 
he  hastened  to  build  a  fire  in  the  stove. 


THE   WAY   OF   A   MAID   WITH  A   MAN   103 

He  stoked  that  rusty  firebox  until  by  the  time  he 
had  cooked  and  eaten  breakfast  it  was  glowing  red. 
When  he  sat  with  his  feet  cocked  up  on  the  stove  front 
and  gave  himself  up  to  the  sober  business  of  thought, 
it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  passing  a  portentous  mile 
stone.  To  his  unsophisticated  mind  the  simple  fact 
that  Sophie  Carr  had  permitted  him  to  kiss  her,  that 
for  a  moment  her  head  with  its  fluffy  aureole  of  yellow 
hair  had  rested  willingly  upon  his  shoulder,  created  a 
bond  between  them,  an  understanding,  a  tentative  prom 
ise,  a  cleaving  together  that  could  have  but  one  conclu 
sion.  He  found  himself  reflecting  upon  that  —  to  him 
—  most  natural  conclusion  with  a  peculiar  mixture  of 
gladness  and  doubt.  For  even  in  his  exaltation  he 
could  not  visualize  Sophie  Carr  as  an  ideal  minister's 
helpmate.  He  simply  could  not.  He  could  hear  too 
plainly  the  scorn  of  her  tone  as  she  spoke  of  "  para 
sitical  parsons  ",  of  "  unthinking  acceptance  of  priestly 
myths  ",  of  the  Church,  his  Church,  as  "  an  organiza 
tion  essentially  materialistic  in  its  aims  and  activities  ", 
and  many  more  such  phrases  which  were  new  and  start 
ling  to  Thompson,  even  if  they  had  been  current  among 
radical  thinkers  long  enough  to  become  incorporated 
in  a  great  deal  that  has  been  written  upon  philosophy 
and  theology. 

Sophie  didn't  believe  in  his  God,  nor  his  work;  he 
stopped  short  of  asking  if  he  himself  any  longer  had 
full  and  implicit  belief  in  these  things,  or  if  he  had 
simply  accepted  them  without  question  as  he  had 
accepted  so  many  other  things  in  his  brief  career.  But 
she  believed  in  him  and  cared  for  him.  He  took  that 


104  BURNED    BRIDGES 

for  granted  too.  And  love  covers  a  multitude  of  sins. 
He  had  often  had  occasion  to  discourse  upon  various 
sorts  of  love  —  fatherly  love  and  brotherly  love  and 
maternal  affection  and  so  on.  But  this  flare  of  passion 
ate  tenderness  focussing  upon  one  slender  bit  of  a  girl 
was  something  he  could  not  quite  fathom.  He  would 
have  contradicted  with  swift  anger  any  suggestion  that 
perhaps  it  was  merely  wise  old  Nature's  ancient  method 
efficiently  at  work  for  an  appointed  end.  He  had  been 
so  thoroughly  grounded  in  the  convention  of  decrying 
physical  impulses,  of  putting  everything  upon  a  pure 
and  spiritual  plane,  that  in  this  first  emotional  crisis 
of  his  life  he  could  no  more  help  dodging  first  principles 
than  a  spaniel  pup  can  help  swimming  when  he  is  first 
tossed  into  deep  water. 

Still  —  he  was  not  a  fool.  He  knew  that  his  concern 
was  not  for  Sophie  Carr's  immortal  soul,  nor  for  the 
beauty  and  sweetness  of  her  spirit,  when  he  was  near 
her,  when  he  touched  her  hand,  nor  even  in  that  supreme 
moment  when  he  crushed  her  close  to  his  unquiet  heart 
and  pressed  that  hot  kiss  on  her  lips.  It  was  the  sheei 
flesh  and  blood  womanliness  of  her  that  made  his  heai 
beat  faster,  the  sweet  curve  of  her  lips,  the  willowj 
grace  of  her  body,  the  odd  little  gestures  of  her  hands, 
the  melody  of  her  voice  and  the  gray  pools  of  her  eyes, 
eyes  full  of  queer  gleams  and  curious  twinkles  —  all 
these  things  were  indescribably  beautiful  to  him.  He 
loved  her  —  just  the  girl  herself.  He  wanted  her, 
craved  her  presence;  not  the  pleasant  memory  of  her, 
but  the  forthright  physical  nearness  of  her  he  desired 
with  an  intensity  that  was  like  a  fever. 


THE   WAY   OF   A   MAID   WITH   A   MAN   105 

Just  the  excitement  of  feeling  —  as  according  to 
his  lights  he  had  t  a  right  to  feel  —  that  they  stood 
pledged,  made  it  hard  for  him  to  get  down  to  funda 
mentals  and  consider  rationally  the  question  of  mar 
riage,  of  their  future,  of  how  his  appointed  work  could 
be  made  to  dovetail  with  the  union  of  two  such  diverse 
personalities  as  himself  and  Sophie  Carr. 

A  hedge  podge  of  this  sort  was  turning  over  in  his 
mind  as  he  sat  there,  now  and  then  absently  feeling  the 
dusky  puffiness  under  one  eye  and  the  tender  spot  on 
the  bridge  of  his  nose  where  Tommy  Ashe's  hard 
knuckles  had  peeled  away  the  skin.  He  still  had  a  most 
un-Christian  satisfaction  in  the  belief  that  he  had  given 
as  good  as  he  had  got.  He  was  not  ashamed  of  having 
fought.  He  would  fight  again,  any  time,  anywhere, 
for  Sophie  Carr.  He  did  not  ask  himself  whether  the 
combative  instinct  once  aroused  might  not  function  for 
lesser  cause. 

He  came  out  of  this  reverie  at  the  faint  rustle  of 
footsteps  beyond  his  door  —  which  was  open  because 
of  the  hot  fire  he  had  built. 

He  did  not  suspect  that  the  source  of  those  footsteps 
might  be  Sophie  Carr  until  she  stood  unmistakably 
framed  in  the  doorway.  He  rose  to  his  feet  with  a 
glad  cry  of  welcome,  albeit  haltingly  articulated.  He 
was  suddenly  reluctant  to  face  her  with  the  marks  of 
conflict  upon  his  face. 

"May  I  come  in?"  she  asked  coolly  —  and  suited 
her  action  to  the  request  before  he  made  reply. 

She  sat  down  on  a  box  just  within  the  door  and 
looked  soberly  at  him,  scanning  his  face.  Her  hands 


106  BURNED    BRIDGES 

lay  quietly  in  her  lap  and  she  did  not  seem  to  see 
Thompson's  involuntarily  extended  arms.  There  was 
about  her  none  of  the  glowing  witchery  of  yesterday. 
She  lifted  to  him  a  face  thoughtful,  even  a  little  sad. 
And  Thompson's  hands  fell,  his  heart  keeping  them 
company.  It  was  as  if  the  somberness  of  those  wind 
swept  woods  had  crept  into  his  cabin.  It  stilled  the 
rush  of  words  that  quivered  on  his  lips.  Sophie,  in 
deed,  found  utterance  first. 

"  I'm  sorry  that  you  and  Tommy  fought,"  she  said 
constrainedly.  "  I  didn't  know  until  this  morning.  It 
was  cowardly  of  me  to  run  away.  But  it  was  foolish 
to  fight.  It  didn't  occur  to  me  that  you  two  would. 
I  suppose  you  wonder  what  brought  me  here.  I  was 
worried  for  fear  you  had  been  hurt.  I  saw  Tommy, 
but  he  wouldn't  talk." 

"  I  daresay  I'm  not  a  pretty  object  to  look  at," 
Thompson  admitted.  "  But  I'm  'really  not  much  the 
worse." 

"  No.  I  can  see  that,"  she  said.  "  Tommy  is  very 
quick  and  very  strong  —  I  was  a  little  afraid." 

The  contrition,  the  hint  of  pity  in  her  voice  stirred 
up  the  queer  personal  pride  he  had  lately  acquired. 

"  I  don't  suppose  Ashe  has  any  monopoly  of  strength 
and  quickness,"  he  remarked.  "  That  —  but  there,  I 
don't  want  to  talk  about  that." 

He  came  over  close  beside  her  and  looked  down  with 
all  his  troubled  heart  in  his  clear  blue  eyes  —  so  thai 
the  girl  turned  her  gaze  away  and  her  fingers  wove 
nervously  together. 

"  My  dear,"  the  unaccustomed  phrase  broke  abruptly 


THE   WAY   OF   A   MAID   WITH   A   MAN   107 

with  a  fierce  tenderness,  from  his  lips.  "  I  love  you  — 
which  I  think  you  know  without  my  saying  so.  I  want 
you.  Will  you  marry  me  ?  I  — " 

Sophie  warded  off  the  impetuous  outstretching  of  his 
arms  and  sprang  to  her  feet,  facing  him  with  all  the 
delicate  color  gone  out  of  her  cheeks,  a  sudden  heave 
to  her  breast.  She  shook  her  head.  "  No,"  she  said. 
"  I  won't  penalize  myself  to  that  extent  —  nor  you.  I 
won't  bind  myself  by  any  such  promise.  I  won't  even 
admit  that  I  might." 

He  caught  her  by  the  shoulders  and  shook  her 
roughly. 

"  Yesterday,"  he  said  hoarsely,  "  you  let  me  kiss  you 

—  your  lips  burned  me  —  you  rested  your  head  against 
me  as  if  it  belonged  there.     What  sort  of  a  woman  are 
you  ?     Sophie !     Sophie !  " 

"  I  know,"  she  returned.  "  But  yesterday  was  yes 
terday.  This  is  another  day.  Yesterday  —  oh,  you 
wouldn't  understand  if  I  told  you.  Yesterday  I  was 
bursting  with  happiness,  like  a  bird  in  the  spring.  I 
like  you,  big  man  with  the  freckled  face.  You  came 
down  here  and  stood  beside  me  and  smiled  at  me.  And 

—  and    that's    all  —  a    minute's    madness.     We    can't 
marry  on  that.     I  can't.     /  won't." 

His  fingers  tightened  on  the  rounded  arms.  He 
shook  her  again  with  a  restrained  savagery.  If  he  hurt 
her  she  did  not  flinch,  nor  did  her  gray  eyes,  cloudy 
now  and  wistful,  waver  before  the  passionate  fire  in  his. 

"  Sophie,"  he  went  on,  "  you  don't  know  what  this 
means  to  me.  Don't  you  care  a  little?  " 

Yes,"  she  answered  slowly.     "  Perhaps  more  than 


t. 


io8  BURNED    BRIDGES 

a  little.     I'm  made  that  way,  I  suppose.     It  isn't  hard 
for  me  to  love.     But  one  doesn't  — " 

"  Then  why,"  he  demanded,  "  why  refuse  to  give  me 
a  hope?  Why,  if  you  care  in  the  least,  is  there  no 
chance  for  me?  It  isn't  just  a  sudden  fancy.  I've 
been  feeling  it  grow  and  struggling  to  repress  it,  ever 
since  I  first  saw  you.  You  say  you  care  —  yet  you 
won't  even  think  of  marrying  me.  I  can't  understand 
that  at  all.  Why?" 

"  Do  you  want  to  know?  Can't  you  see  good  grounds 
why  we  two,  of  all  people,  should  not  marry?  "  she 
asked  evenly.  "  Can  you  see  anything  to  make  it  de 
sirable  except  a  —  a  welling  up  of  natural  passion? 
Don't  hold  my  arms  so  tight.  You  hurt." 

He  released  his  unthinking  grip  and  stepped  back 
pace,  his  expression  one  of  hurt  bewilderment  at  tl 
paradox  of  Sophie's  admission  and  refusal. 

"  We're  at  opposite  poles  in  everything,"  she  went 
on.     "  I  don't  believe  in  the  things  you  believe  in. 
don't  see  life  with  your  vision  at  all.     I  never  shall 
We'd  be  in  a  continual  clash.     I  like  you  but  I  couldn'1 
possibly  live  with  you  —  you  couldn't  live  with  me. 
rebel  at  the  future  I  can  see  for  us.     Apart  from  you 
self,  the  things  you'd  want  to  share  with  me  I  despii 
If  I  had  to  live  in  an  atmosphere  of  sermons  and  sha 
of  ministerial  sanctimoniousness  and  material  strivi 
for  a  bigger  church  and  a  bigger  salary,  I'd  suffocate 
-  I'd  hate  myself  —  and  in  the  end  I'd  hate  you  too." 

A  little  note  of  scorn  crept  into  her  voice,  and  she 
stopped.  When  she  spoke  again  her  tone  had  changed, 
deepened  into  uncertainty,  freighted  with  wistfulness. 


THE   WAY   OF  A   MAID   WITH   A   MAN   109 

"  I'm  not  good  —  not  in  your  sense  of  the  word,"  she 
said.  "  I  don't  even  want  to  be.  It  would  take  all  the 
joy  out  of  living.  I  want  to  sing  and  dance  and  be 
vibrantly  alive.  I  want  to  see  far  countries  and  big 
cities,  to  go  about  among  people  whose  outlook  isn't 
bounded  by  a  forest  and  a  lake  shore,  nor  by  the  things 
you  set  store  by.  And  I'll  be  a  discontented  pendulum 
until  I  do. 

"  Why,"  she  burst  out  passionately,  "  I'd  be  the 
biggest  little  fool  on  earth  to  marry  you  just  because  — 
just  because  I  like  you,  because  you  kissed  me  and  for 
a  minute  made  me  feel  that  life  could  be  bounded  by  you 
and  kisses.  You're  only  the  second  possible  man  I've 
ever  seen.  You  and  Tommy  Ashe.  And  before  you 
came  I. could  easily  have  persuaded  myself  that  I  loved 
Tommy." 

Now  you  think  perhaps  you  love  me,  but  that  you 
light  perhaps  care  in  the  same  way  for  the  next  at- 
ractive  man  who  comes  along?  Is  that  it?  "  Thomp- 
m  asked  with  a  touch  of  bitterness. 

I  might  think  so  —  how  can  one  tell  ?  "  she  sighed. 
But  I'm  very  sure  my  impulses  will  never  plunge  me 
into  anything  headlong,  as  you  would  have  me  plunge. 
Don't  you  see,"  she  made  an  impatient  gesture,  "  we're 
just  like  a  couple  of  fledgling  birds  trying  our  wings. 
And  you  want  to  proceed  on  the  assumption  that  we're 
equal  to  anything,  sure  of  everything.  I  know  I'm  not. 
You—" 

She  made  again  that  quick,  expressive  gesture  with 
her  hands.  Something  about  it  made  Thompson  sud 
denly  feel  hopeless  and  forlorn,  the  airy  castles  reared 


no 


BURNED    BRIDGES 


overnight  out  of  the  stuff  of  dreams  a  tumbled  heap 
about  him.  He  sat  down  on  one  of  the  rude  chairs, 
and  turned  his  face  to  look  out  the  window,  a  lump 
slowly  gathering  in  his  throat. 

"  All  right,"  he  said.     "  Good-by." 

If  his  tone  was  harsh  and  curt  he  could  not  help  that. 
It  was  all  he  could  say  and  the  only  possible  fashion  of 
saying  it.  He  wanted  to  cry  aloud  his  pain,  the  yearn 
ing  ache  that  filled  him,  and  he  could  not,  would  not  — 
no  more  than  he  would  have  whined  under  pure  physical 
hurt.  But  when  he  heard  the  faint  rustle  of  her  cotton 
dress  and  her  step  outside  he  put  his  face  on  his  hands 
and  took  his  breath  with  a  shuddering  sigh. 

At  that,  he  was  mistaken.  Sophie  had  not  gone. 
There  was  the  quick,  light  pad  of  her  feet  on  the  floor, 
her  soft  warm  hands  closed  suddenly  about  his  neck, 
and  he  looked  up  into  eyes  bright  and  wet.  Her  face 
dropped  to  a  level  with  his  own. 

"  I'm  so  sorry,  big  man,"  she  whispered,  in  a  small, 
choked  voice.  "  It  hurts  me  too." 

He  felt  the  warm  moist  touch  of  her  lips  on  his  cheek, 
the  faint  exhalation  of  her  breath,  and  while  his  arms 
reached  swiftly,  instinctively  to  grasp  and  hold  her 
close,  she  was  gone.  And  this  time  she  did  not  come 
back. 


CHAPTER  XI 

A  MAN'S   JOB   FOR  A  MINISTER 

HAVING  thus  received  a  sad  jolt  through  the  medium 
of  his  affections,  Mr.  Thompson,  like  countless  num 
bers  of  human  beings  before  him,  set  about  gathering 
himself  together.  He  did  a  tremendous  lot  of  thinking 
about  things  in  general,  about  himself  and  Sophie  Carr 
in  particular.  Moping  in  that  isolated  cabin  his  mind 
took  on  a  sort  of  abnormal  activity.  He  could  not 
even  stop  thinking  when  he  wanted  to  stop.  He  would 
lie  awake  in  the  silent  darkness  long  after  he  should 
have  been  asleep,  going  over  his  narrow  and  uneventful 
existence,  the  unwelcome  and  anguished  present,  the 
future  that  was  nothing  but  a  series  of  blank  pages 
which  he  had  yet  to  turn  in  God  only  knew  what  bitter 
ness  and  sorrow.  That  was  the  way  he  gloomily  put 
it  to  himself.  He  had  still  to  learn  what  an  adaptable, 
resilient  organism  man  is.  This,  his  first  tentative 
brush  with  life,  with  the  realities  of  pain  and  passion, 
had  left  him  exceedingly  cast  down,  more  than  a  little 
inclined  to  pessimism. 

He  experienced  gusts  of  unreasoning  anger  at  Sophie 
Carr,  forgetting,  as  a  man  wounded  in  his  egotism  and 


ii2  BURNED    BRIDGES 

disappointed  in  his  first  passionate  yearning  for  a  mate 
is  likely  to  forget,  that  he  had  brought  it  on  himself, 
that  Sophie  had  not  encouraged  him,  nor  lured  him  to 
his  undoing,  nor  given  him  aught  to  nourish  the  illusion 
that  she  was  his  for  the  asking. 

Sometimes  he  would  have  a  vivid  flash  of  jealousy 
when  he  thought  about  her  and  Tommy  Ashe,  when  he 
recalled  her  admissions.  And  he  would  soften  from 
that  mood,  twisting  his  lips  wryly,  when  he  remembered 
the  pitying  tenderness  of  her  good-by. 

He  could  not  in  the  least  understand  the  girl  nor  her 
motives,  any  more  than  he  could  understand  the  trans 
formation  that  he  felt  vaguely  was  taking  place  in 
himself.  She  was  too  wise  for  her  years  and  her  experi 
ence.  There  was  a  stinging  truth  in  some  of  the  things 
she  said.  And  it  was  his  fault,  not  hers,  that  they  were 
unpalatable  truths.  What  did  a  man  like  himself  have 
to  offer  a  girl  like  her?  Nothing.  She  had  his  measure 
in  everything  but  sheer  brute  strength,  most  of  all  in 
the  stoutness  of  her  resolution.  For  Mr.  Thompson, 
pondering  soberly,  realized  that  if  he  gave  free  play 
to  the  feelings  Sophie  Carr  had  stirred  up  in  him,  there 
was  no  folly  he  was  not  capable  of  committing.  He, 
whose  official  creed  it  was  to  expound  self-denial,  would 
have  followed  his  impulses  blindly.  He  would  have 
married  out  of  hand. 

And  after  that,  what  ? 

He  could  not  see  clearly,  when  he  tried  to  see.  He  was 
no  longer  filled  with  the  sublime  faith  that  a  beneficent 
Providence  kept  watch  and  ward  over  him,  and  all  men. 
He  was  in  fact  now  almost  of  the  opinion  that  both 


A    MAN'S    JOB    FOR    A    MINISTER     113 

sparrows  and  preachers  might  fall  and  the  Great  Intel 
ligence  remain  unperturbed.  It  seemed  necessary  that 
a  man  should  do  more  than  have  faith.  He  must  imper 
atively  make  some  conscious,  intelligent  effort  on  his 
own  behalf.  He  was  especially  of  this  opinion  since 
the  Board  of  Home  Missions  had  overlooked  the  matter 
of  forwarding  his  quarterly  salary  on  time.  The  faith 
that  moveth  mountains  was  powerless  to  conjure  flour 
and  sugar  and  tea  out  of  those  dusky  woods  and  silent 
waterways  —  at  least  not  without  a  canoe  and  labor 
and  a  certain  requisite  medium  of  exchange. 

No,  he  did  not  blame  Sophie  Carr  for  refusing  to 
allow  her  judgment  to  be  fogged  with  sentiment.  He 
only  marvelled  that  she  could  do  it  where  he  had  failed. 
He  could  not  blame  her  —  not  if  his  speech  and  activ 
ities  since  he  came  to  Lone  Moose  were  the  measure  of 
his  possible  achievement. 

He  was  taking  grim,  unsparing  stock  of  himself,  of 
what  he  had,  of  what  he  had  accomplished  altogether, 
by  this  time.  It  was  not  much.  It  was  not  even  prom 
ising.  A  theological  education,  which,  compared  to  the 
sort  of  culture  Sam  Carr  and  his  daughter  had  man 
aged  to  acquire,  seemed  rather  inadequate  and  one 
sided.  They  knew  more  about  the  principles  he  was 
supposed  to  teach  than  he  knew  himself.  And  their 
knowledge  extended  to  fields  where  he  could  not  follow. 
When  he  compared  himself  with  Tommy  Ashe  —  well, 
Tommy  was  an  Oxford  man,  and  although  Oxford  had 
not  indelibly  stamped  him,  still  it  had  left  its  mark. 

These  people  had  covered  all  his  ground  —  and  they 
had  gone  exploring  further  in  fields  of  general  knowl- 


ii4  BURNED    BRIDGES 

edge  while  he  sat  gazing  smugly  at  his  own  reflection  in 
a  theological  mirror.  Upon  that  score  certainly  the 
count  was  badly  against  him. 

As  for  his  worldly  possessions,  when  Mr.  Thompson 
sardonically  considered  them  as  a  means  of  supporting 
a  wife  he  was  forced  to  admit  that  the  provision  would 
be  intolerably  meager.  His  prospects  included  a  salary 
that  barely  sufficed  for  one.  It  was  apparent,  he  con 
cluded,  that  the  Board  of  Home  Missions,  like  the  Army 
and  Navy,  calculated  its  rank  and  file  to  remain  in 
single  blessedness  and  subsist  frugally  to  boot. 

As  to  his  late  accomplishments  in  the  field  of  labor, 
Mr.  Thompson  looked  out  of  his  cabin  door  to  where 
he  could  see  dimly  through  the  trees  the  uncompleted 
bulk  of  his  church  —  and  he  set  down  a  mental  cipher 
against  that  account.  It  was  waste  effort.  He  felt 
in  his  heart  that  he  would  never  finish  it.  What  was 
the  use? 

He  tried  to  whip  up  the  old  sense  of  duty  to  his 
calling,  to  the  Church,  to  the  great  good  which  he  hac 
been  taught  he  should  accomplish.  And  he  could  mus 
ter  up  nothing  but  an  irritating  sense  of  hollow  word 
iness  in  many  of  his  former  dictums  and  utterances,  a 
vast  futility  of  effort. 

Whereupon  he  at  once  found  himself  face  to  face  with 
a  fresh  problem,  in  which  the  question  of  squaring  hia 
material  needs  and  queer  half-formed  desires  with  hia 
actions  loomed  paramount.  In  other  words  Mr, 
Thompson  began,  in  a  fashion  scarcely  apprehended, 
upon  the  painful  process  of  formulating  a  philosophy 
of  life  that  would  apply  to  life  as  it  was  forcing  itself 


A    MAN'S    JOB    FOR    A    MINISTER     115 

upon  his  consciousness  —  not  as  he  had  hitherto  con 
ceived  life  to  be. 

But  he  was  unable  to  pin  himself  down  to  any  def 
inite  plan.  He  could  not  evolve  a  clear  idea  of  what 
to  do,  nor  even  of  what  he  wanted  to  do.  And  in  the 
interim  he  did  little  save  sit  about  his  cabin,  deep  in 
introspection,  chop  firewood  as  needed  and  cook  his 
plain  fare  —  that  was  gradually  growing  plainer,  more 
restricted.  Sometimes  he  varied  this  by  long  solitary 
tramps  through  the  woods  along  the  brushy  bank  of 
Lone  Moose  Creek. 

This  hermit  existence  he  kept  up  for  over  a  fortnight. 
He  had  fought  with  Tommy  Ashe  and  he  felt  diffident 
about  inflicting  his  company  on  Tommy,  considering 
the  casus  belli,.  Nor  could  he  bring  himself  to  a  casual 
dropping-in  on  Sam  Carr.  He  shrank  from  meeting 
Sophie,  from  hearing  the  sound  of  her  voice,  from  feel 
ing  the  tumult  of  desire  her  nearness  always  stirred 
up  in  him.  And  there  was  nowhere  else  to  go,  no  one 
with  whom  he  could  talk.  He  could  not  hold  converse 
with  the  Crees.  The  Lachlan  family  relapsed  into  pain 
ful  stiffness  when  he  entered  their  house.  There  was 
no  common  ground  between  him  and  them. 

He  was  really  marking  time  until  the  next  mail  should 
arrive  at  Fort  Pachugan.  The  days  were  growing 
shorter,  the  nights  edged  with  sharp  frosts.  There 
came  a  flurry  of  snow  that  lay  a  day  and  faded  slowly 
in  the  eye  of  the  weakening  sun. 

Mr.  Thompson,  watching  his  daily  diminishing  food 
supply  with  sedulous  consideration,  knew  that  the 
winter  was  drawing  near,  a  season  merciless  in  its  rigor. 


n6  BURNED    BRIDGES 

He  knew  that  one  of  these  days  the  northerly  wind 
would  bring  down  a  storm  which  would  blanket  the  land 
with  snow  that  only  the  sun  of  the  next  May  would 
banish.  He  was  ill-prepared  to  face  such  an  iron- 
jawed  season. 

If  he  stayed  there  it  would  just  about  take  his  quar 
terly  salary  to  supply  him  with  plain  food  and  the 
heavier  clothing  he  needed.  But  —  he  drew  a  long 
breath  and  asked  himself  one  day  why  he  should  stay 
there.  Why  should  he?  He  could  not  forbear  a  wry 
grimace  when  he  tried  to  see  himself  carrying  out  his 
appointed  task  faithfully  to  the  end  —  preaching  vainly 
to  uncomprehending  ears  month  after  month,  year  after 
year,  stagnating  mentally  and  suffocating  spiritually  in 
those  silent  forests  where  God  and  godly  living  was  not 
a  factor  at  all ;  where  food,  clothing,  and  shelter  loomed 
bigger  than  anything  else,  because  until  these  primary 
needs  were  satisfied  a  man  could  not  rise  above  the 
status  of  a  hungry  animal. 

Yet  he  shrank  from  giving  up  the  ministry.  He  had 
been  bred  to  it,  his  destiny  sedulously  shaped  toward 
that  end  by  the  maiden  aunts  and  the  theological 
schools.  It  was,  in  effect,  his  trade.  He  could  scarcely 
look  equably  upon  a  future  apart  from  prayer  meet 
ings,  from  Bible  classes,  from  carefully  thought  out  ant 
eloquently  delivered  sermons.  He  felt  like  a  renegade 
when  he  considered  quitting  that  chosen  field.  But  h< 
felt  also  that  it  was  a  field  in  which  he  had  no  business 
now. 

He  was  still  in  this  uncertain  frame  of  mind  a  fei 
days  later  when  he  borrowed  a  canoe  from  Lachlan  am 


A    MAN'S    JOB    FOR    A    MINISTER     117 

set  out  for  the  Fort.  He  had  kept  away  from  Carr's 
for  nearly  five  weeks.  Neither  Sophie  nor  her  father 
had  come  to  his  cabin  again.  Once  or  twice  he  had 
hailed  Carr  from  a  distance.  In  the  height  of  his  lone 
liness  he  had  traversed  the  half-mile  to  Tommy  Ashe's 
shack  up  Lone  Moose,  only  to  find  it  deserted.  He 
learned  later  that  Lachlan's  oldest  son  and  Ashe  had 
gone  partners  to  run  a  line  of  traps  away  to  the  north 
of  the  village.  It  occurred  to  Thompson  that  he  might 
do  the  same  —  if  —  well,  he  would  see  about  that  when 
he  got  home  from  Pachugan. 

The  birch  bark  Lachlan  let  him  have  occasioned  him 
many  a  rare  tussle  before  he  finally  beached  it  at  the 
Fort.  The  fall  winds  were  roughening  the  lake.  It 
was  his  first  single-handed  essay  with  the  paddle.  But 
he  derived  a  certain  satisfaction  from  winning  alone 
against  wind  and  water,  and  also  gained  food  for 
thought  in  the  odd  circumstance  of  his  growing  ten 
dency  to  get  a  glow  out  of  purely  physical  achieve 
ments.  It  did  not  irk  nor  worry  him  now  to  sweat  and 
strain  for  hours  on  end.  Instead,  he  found  in  that  con 
tinued,  concentrated  muscular  effort  a  happy  release 
from  troublesome  reflection. 

His  cheque  was  waiting.  As  he  fingered  the  green  slip 
whose  face  value  was  one  hundred  and  twenty  dollars, 
one  fourth  of  his  yearly  stipend,  he  felt  relieved,  and 
at  the  same  time  oddly  reluctant.  Not  until  late  in 
the  evening  did  he  get  at  the  root  of  that  reluctance. 
MacLeod  had  hospitably  insisted  on  putting  him  up. 
They  sat  in  the  factor's  living  room  before  a  great 
roaring  fireplace.  Their  talk  had  lapsed  into  silence. 


n8  BURNED    BRIDGES 

MacLeod  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  pipe  in  hand,  frown 
ing  abstractedly. 

"  Man,"  he  said  at  length,  his  bearded  face  wrinkled 
with  a  smile,  "  I  wish  ye  were  no  a  preacher  wi'  labors 
i'  the  vineyard  of  the  Lord  tae  occupy  yer  time.  I'd 
have  ye  do  a  job  for  me." 

"  A  job?  "  Thompson  came  out  of  his  preoccupation. 

"  Aye,"  MacLeod  grunted.  "  A  job.  A  reg'lar 
man's  job.  There'd  be  a  reasonable  compensation  in't. 
It's  a  pity,"  he  continued  dryly,  "  that  a  parson  has  a 
mind  sae  far  above  purely  mateerial  conseederation." 

"  It   may   surprise   you,"   Mr.   Thompson   returned 
almost  as  dryly,  "  to  know  that  I  have  —  to  a  certain 
extent  —  modified  my  views  upon  what  you  term  ma 
terial  considerations.     They  are,  I  have  found,  more 
important  than  I  realized." 

The  factor  took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth  and  re 
garded  Thompson  with  frank  curiosity. 

"  Well,"  he  remarked  finally.  "  Yer  a  young  man 
It's  no  surprisin'."  He  paused  a  second. 

"  Would  it  interest  ye  —  would  ye  consider  givin'  a 
month  or  two  of  yer  time  to  a  legitimate  enterprise  i 
it  was  made  worth  yer  while?  "  he  asked  bluntly. 

"  Yes,"  Thompson  answered  with  equal  directness 
"  If  I  knew  what  it  was  —  if  it's  something  I  can  do. 

"  I'm  just  marking  time  at  Lone  Moose,"  he  went  on 
after  a  pause.     There  was  a  note  of  discouragement  in 
his  voice.     "  I'm  —  well,  completely  superfluous  there 
I'd  be  tempted  — " 

He  did  not  go  farther.  Nor  did  MacLeod  inquire 
into  the  nature  of  the  suggested  temptation.  He 


A    MAN'S    JOB    FOR    A    MINISTER     119 

merely  nodded  understandingly  at  the  first  part  of 
Thompson's  reply. 

"  Ye  could  do  it  fine,  I  think,"  he  said  thoughtfully, 
"  wi'  the  use  of  yer  head  an'  the  bit  coachin'  and  help 
I'd  provide.  It's  like  this.  Pachugan's  no  so  good  a 
deestrict  as  it  used  tae  be.  The  fur  trade's  slowin' 
down,  an'  the  Company's  no  so  keen  as  it  was  in  the 
old  days  when  it  was  lord  o'  the  North.  I  mind  when 
a  factor  was  a  power  —  but  that  time's  past.  The 
Company's  got  ither  fish  tae  fry.  Consequently  there's 
times  when  we're  i'  the  pickle  of  them  that  had  tae  make 
bricks  wi'oot  straw.  I  mean  there's  times  when  they 
dinna  gie  us  the  support  needful  to  make  the  best  of 
what  trade  there  is.  Difficulties  of  transportation  for 
one  thing,  an'  a  dyin'  interest  in  a  decayin'  branch  of 
Company  business.  Forbye  a'  that  they  expect  results, 
just  the  same. 

"  Now,  I'm  short  of  three  verra  necessary  things, 
flour,  tea,  and  steel  traps.  I  canna  get  them  frae 
Edmonton.  They  didna  fully  honor  my  fall  requisi 
tions,  an'  it's  too  late  i'  the  season  now.  Yet  they'll 
ask  why  I  dinna  get  the  skins  next  spring,  ye  under 
stand.  If  the  Indians  dinna  get  fully  supplied  here, 
they'll  go  elsewhere;  they  can  do  that  since  there's  a 
French  firm  strung  a  line  o'  posts  to  compete  i'  the 
region,  ye  see. 

"  Now  I  havena  got  the  goods  I  need  an'  I  canna 
get  them  frae  Company  sources.  But  there's  a  free 
trader  set  himsel'  up  tae  the  north  o'  here  last  season. 
The  North's  no  a  monopoly  for  the  Company  these  days, 
ye  ken.  They  canna  run  a  free  trader  out  i'  the  old 


120  BURNED    BRIDGES 

high-handed  fashion.  But  there's  a  bit  of  the  old  spirit 
left  —  an*  this  laddie's  met  wi'  difficulties,  in  a  way  o' 
speakin'.  He's  discouraged  tae  the  point  where  he'll 
sell  cheap;  an'  he's  a  fair  stock  o'  the  verra  goods  I 
want.  I'd  tak'  over  his  stock  to-morrow  —  but  he's 
ninety-odd  miles  away.  I  canna  leave  here  i'  the  height 
o'  the  outfittin*  season.  I  ha'  naebody  I  can  leave  in 
charge. 

"  The  job  for  ye  wad  be  tae  go  up  there,  inventory 
his  stock,  take  it  over,  an*  stay  there  tae  distribute  it 
tae  such  folk  as  I'd  send  tae  be  supplied  in  that  section. 
Wi'  that  completed,  transfer  the  tag-ends  doon  here. 
I'd  furnish  ye  a  breed  tae  guide  ye  there  an*  interpret 
for  ye,  an*  tae  pass  on  the  quality  o'  such  furs  as  might 
offer.  He'd  grade  them,  an'  ye'd  purchase  accordin'. 
Do  ye  see?  It's  no  a  job  I  can  put  on  anny  half-breed. 
There's  none  here  can  write  and  figure." 

"  As  it  sounds,"  Thompson  replied,  "  I  daresay  I 
could  manage.  You  said  it  would  be  worth  my  while. 
What  do  I  gather  from  that?  " 

"  Ye'd  gather  two  dollars  a  day  an'  everything  sup 
plied,"  MacLeod  returned  dryly.  "  Will  ye  tak'  it  on?  " 
Thompson  stared  into  the  fire  for  a  minute.     Then 
he  looked  up  at  the  Factor  of  Fort  Pachugan. 
"  I'm  your  man,"  he  said  briefly. 
"  Good,"  MacLeod  grunted.     "  An'  when  ye  go  back 
tae  the  preachin*  ye'll  find  the  experience  has  done  ye 
no  harm.     Now,  we'll  go  over  the  seetuation  in  detail 
to-morrow,  an'  the  next  day  ye'll  start  north  wi'  Joe 
Lament.     The    freeze-up's    due,    an*    it's    quicker    an* 
easier  travelin'  by  canoe  than  wi'  dogs." 


A    MAN'S    JOB    FOR    A    MINISTER     121 

They  talked  desultorily  for  half  an  hour,  until  Mac 
Leod,  growing  drowsy  before  the  big  fire,  yawned  and 
went  off  to  bed,  after  pointing  out  a  room  for  his  guest 
and  employee-to-be. 

Thompson  shut  the  door  of  his  bedroom  and  sat  down 
on  a  stool.  He  was  warm,  comfortable,  well-fed.  But 
he  was  not  happy,  unless  the  look  of  him  belied  his  real 
feelings.  He  raised  his  eyes  and  stared  curiously  at 
his  reflection  in  a  small  mirror  on  the  wall.  The  scars 
of  Tommy  Ashe's  fists  had  long  since  faded.  His  skin 
was  a  ruddy,  healthy  hue,  the  freckles  across  the  bridge 
of  his  nose  almost  wholly  absorbed  in  a  coat  of  tan. 
But  the  change  that  marked  him  most  was  a  change  of 
expression.  His  eyes  had  lost  the  old,  mild  look.  They 
were  hard  and  alert,  blue  mirrors  of  an  unquiet  spirit. 
There  was  a  different  set  to  his  lips. 

"  I  don't  look  like  a  minister,"  he  muttered.  "  I 
look  like  a  man  who  has  been  drunk.  I  feel  like  that. 
There  must  be  a  devil  in  me." 

He  had  brought  with  him  from  Lone  Moose  a  small 
bag.  Out  of  this  he  now  took  paper,  envelopes,  a  foun 
tain  pen,  changed  his  seat  to  the  edge  of  the  bed,  and 
using  the  stool  for  a  desk  began  to  write.  When  he 
had  covered  two  sheets  he  folded  them  over  the  green 
slip  he  had  that  day  received,  and  slid  the  whole  into 
an  envelope  which  he  addressed : 

MR.  A.  H.  MARKHAM, 

Sec.  M.  E.  Board  of  Home  Missions, 
412  Echo  St., 
Toronto,  Ont. 


122 


BURNED    BRIDGES 


He  laid  the  letter  on  the  bed  and  regarded  it  with  an 
expression  in  which  regret  and  relief  were  equally 
mingled. 

"  They'll  say  —  they'll  think,"  he  muttered  discon 
nectedly. 

He  got  up,  paced  across  the  small  room,  swung  about 
to  look  at  the  letter  again. 

"  I've  got  to  do  it,"  he  said  aloud  defiantly.  "  It's 
the  only  thing  I  can  do.  Burn  all  my  bridges  behind 
me.  If  I  can't  honestly  be  a  minister,  I  can  at  least 
be  a  man." 


CHAPTER  XII 

A  FORTUNE  AND  A  FLITTING 

CHRISTMAS  had  come  and  gone  before  Thompson  fin 
ished  his  job  at  Porcupine  Lake,  some  ninety-odd  miles, 
as  the  crow  flies,  north  of  Fort  Pachugan.  The  Por 
cupine  was  a  marshy  stretch  of  water,  the  home  of 
muskrat  and  beaver,  a  paradise  for  waterfowl  when 
the  heavy  hand  of  winter  was  lifted,  a  sheet  of  ice  now, 
a  white  oval  in  the  dusky  green  of  the  forest.  Here 
the  free  trader  had  built  a  fair-sized  structure  of  logs 
with  goods  piled  in  the  front  and  the  rearward  end 
given  over  to  a  stove,  a  table,  and  two  bunks.  In  this 
place  Thompson  and  Joe  Lament  plied  their  traffic. 
MacLeod  sent  them  Indian  and  half-breed  trappers 
bearing  orders  for  so  much  flour,  so  much  tea,  so  many 
traps,  so  much  powder  and  ball  and  percussion  caps 
for  their  nigh  obsolete  guns.  They  took  their  "  debt  " 
and  departed  into  the  wilderness,  to  repay  in  the  spring 
with  furs. 

So,  by  degrees,  the  free-trader's  stock  approached 
depletion,  until  there  remained  no  more  than  two  good 
dog  teams  could  haul.  With  that  on  sleds,  and  a  few 
bundles  of  furs  traded  in  by  trappers  whose  lines 
radiated  from  the  Porcupine,  Thompson  and  Joe  La- 
mont  came  back  to  Fort  Pachugan. 


124  BURNED    BRIDGES 

The  factor  seemed  well  pleased  with  the  undertaking. 
He  checked  up  the  goods  and  opined  that  the  deal 
would  show  a  rare  profit  for  the  Company. 

"  Ye  have  a  hundred  an*  twenty-six  dollars  due,  over 
an*  above  a  charge  or  two  against  ye,"  he  said  to 
Thompson  when  they  went  over  the  accounts.  "  How 
will  ye  have  it?  In  cash?  If  ye  purpose  to  winter  at 
Lone  Moose  a  credit  maybell  serve  as  well.  Or,  if  ye 
go  out,  ye  can  have  a  cheque  on  the  Company  at  Ed 
monton." 

"  Give  me  the  hundred  in  cash,"  Thompson  decided. 
"  I'll  take  the  twenty  odd  in  grub.  I'm  going  to  Lone 
Moose,  but  I  don't  know  how  long  I'll  stay  there. 
There's  some  stuff  of  mine  there  that  I  want  to  get. 
After  that  —  I'm  a  bit  undecided." 

In  those  long  nights  at  the  Porcupine  he  had  done  a 
good  deal  of  pondering  over  his  next  move.  He  had  not 
yet  come  to  a  fixed  decision.  In  a  general  way  he  knew 
that  he  was  going  out  into  the  world  from  whence  he  had 
come,  with  an  altogether  different  point  of  view,  to 
work  out  his  future  along  altogether  different  lines. 
But  he  had  not  made  up  his  mind  to  do  this  at  once. 
He  was  clearly  conscious  of  one  imperative  craving. 
That  was  for  a  sight  of  Sophie  Carr  and  a  chance  to 
talk  to  her  again.  His  heart  quickened  when  h< 
thought  of  their  parting.  He  knew  she  was  anything 
but  indifferent.  He  was  not  an  egotist,  but  he  knei 
she  harbored  a  feeling  akin  to  his  own,  and  he  buiH 
hopes  on  that,  despite  her  blunt  refusal,  the  logical 
reasons  she  had  set  forth.  He  hoped  again.  He  saw 
himself  in  the  way  of  becoming  competent  —  as  th< 


A    FORTUNE    AND    A    FLITTING      125 

North,  which  is  a  keen  judge,  appraises  competence. 
He  had  chucked  some  of  his  illusions  about  relative 
values.  He  conceived  that  in  time  he  might  approx 
imate  to  Sophie  Carr's  idea  of  a  man. 

He  wanted  to  see  her,  to  talk  with  her,  to  make  her 
define  her  attitude  a  little  more  clearly.  Looking  back 
with  his  mind  a  great  deal  less  confused  by  emotion, 
he  wondered  why  he  had  been  so  dumb,  why  he  had  not 
managed  to  convey  to  her  that  the  things  she  foresaw 
as  denying  them  happiness  or  even  toleration  for  each 
other  were  not  a  final  state  in  him,  that  his  ideas  and 
habits  and  pursuits  were  in  a  state  of  flux  that  might 
lead  him  anywhere.  She  had  thrown  cold  water  on  the 
flame  of  his  passion.  But  he  remembered  with  a  glow 
of  happiness  that  she  had  kissed  him. 

He  pondered  deeply  upon  this,  wondering  much  at 
the  singular  attraction  this  girl  held  for  him,  the  mys 
tery  of  that  strange  quality  that  drew  him  so.  He 
lacked  knowledge  of  the  way  and  power  of  women.  It 
had  never  touched  him  before.  It  was  indeed  as  if  he 
had  been  asleep  and  had  wakened  with  a  start.  He 
was  intensely  curious  about  that,  curious  to  know  why 
he,  who  had  met  nice  girls  and  attractive  women  by  the 
score,  had  come  into  the  North  woods  to  be  stirred  out 
of  all  reason  by  a  slip  of  a  girl  with  yellow  hair  and 
expressive  gray  eyes  and  a  precocious  manner  of 
thinking. 

He  looked  forward  eagerly  to  seeing  her  again.  He 
>mehow  felt  a  little  more  sure  of  himself  now.  He 

)uld  think  of  a  number  of  things  he  wished  to  ask  her, 
of  ideas  he  wanted  to  expand  into  speech.  The  hurt 


126  BURNED    BRIDGES 

of  her  blank  refusal  had  dulled  a  little.  He  could 
anticipate  a  keen  pleasure  just  in  seeing  her. 

In  the  morning  he  set  about  outfitting.  He  had  come 
down  from  Porcupine  with  dogs.  He  had  seen  dog 
teams  bearing  the  goods  and  chattels  of  innumerable 
natives.  He  perceived  the  essential  usefulness  of  dogs 
and  snowshoes  and  toboggans  in  that  boundless  region 
of  snow.  Canoes  when  the  ice  went  out,  dogs  and  to 
boggans  when  winter  came  again  to  lock  tight  the 
waterways.  So  during  his  stay  at  Porcupine  he  had 
accepted  the  gift  of  a  dog  from  a  Cree,  traded  tobacco 
for  another,  and  he  and  Lamont  had  whiled  away  the 
long  evenings  in  making  two  sets  of  harness  and  a  small 
toboggan.  A  four-dog  team  will  haul  a  sizable  load. 
Two  would  move  all  the  burden  of  food  and  gear  that 
he  had  in  his  possession.  He  had  learned  painfully  to 
walk  upon  snowshoes  —  enough  so  that  he  was  over 
the  poignant  ache  in  the  calf  of  the  leg  which  the  North 
calls  mal  de  racquette.  Altogether  he  felt  himself 
fully  equal  to  fare  into  the  wilderness  alone.  More 
over  he  had  none  of  that  intangible  dread  of  the 
wilderness  which  had  troubled  him  when  he  first  came 
to  Lone  Moose. 

Then  it  seemed  lonely  beyond  expression,  brooding, 
sinister.  It  was  lonely  still  —  but  that  was  all.  He 
was  beginning  to  grasp  the  motif  of  the  wilderness,  to 
understand  in  a  measure  that  to  those  who  adapted 
themselves  thereto  it  was  a  sanctuary.  The  sailor  to 
his  sea,  the  woodsman  to  his  woods,  and  the  boulevardier 
to  his  beloved  avenues!  Thompson  did  not  cleave  to 
the  North  as  a  woodsman  might.  But  the  natural 


A    FORTUNE    AND    A    FLITTING      127 

phenomena  of  unbroken  silences,  of  vast  soundlessness, 
of  miles  upon  miles  of  somber  forest  aisles  did  not 
oppress  him  now.  What  a  man  understands  he  does 
not  fear.  The  unknown,  the  potentially  terrible  which 
spurs  the  imagination  to  horrifying  vision,  is  what  bears 
heavy  on  a  man's  soul. 

Thompson's  preparation  for  the  trail  was  simple. 
That  lesson  he  had  learned  from  two  months'  close  asso 
ciation  with  Joe  Lament.  He  had  acquired  a  sleeping 
bag  of  moosehide,  soft  tanned.  This,  his  gun  and  axe, 
the  grub  he  got  from  the  Pachugan  store,  he  had  lashed 
on  the  toboggan  and  put  his  dogs  in  harness  at  day 
break.  There  would  be  little  enough  day  to  light  his 
steps.  Dusk  came  at  midafternoon. 

When  he  had  tied  the  last  lashing  he  shook  hands 
with  MacLeod  and  set  out. 

He  traversed  the  sixty  miles  between  Pachugan  and 
Lone  Moose  in  two  days,  by  traveling  late  the  first 
night,  under  a  brilliant  moon.  It  gave  him  a  far  vision 
of  the  lake  shore,  black  point  after  black  point  thrust 
ing  out  into  the  immense  white  level  of  the  lake.  Upon 
that  hard  smooth  surface  he  could  tuck  the  snowshoes 
under  his  lashings  and  trot  over  the  ice,  his  dogs  at  his 
heels,  the  frost-bound  hush  broken  by  the  tinkle  of  a 
little  bell  Joe  Lament  had  fastened  on  the  lead  dog's 
collar.  It  rang  sweetly,  a  gay  note  in  that  chill  void. 

That  night  he  drew  into  a  spruce  grove,  cleared  a 
space  for  his  fire  and  bed,  fed  himself  hot  tea  and  a 
bannock,  and  the  hindquarters  of  a  rabbit  potted  by 
his  rifle  on  the  way.  He  went  to  sleep  with  drowsy 
eyes  peeping  at  the  cold  stars  from  under  the  flap  of 


128  BURNED    BRIDGES 

his  sleeping  bag,  at  the  jagged  silhouette  of  spruce  tops 
cut  sharp  against  the  sky. 

He  drew  up  before  the  mission  quarters  in  the  gray 
of  the  next  dusk,  and  stood  again  after  nigh  three 
months  at  his  own  door.  The  clearing  was  a  white 
square,  all  its  unlovely  litter  of  fallen  trees  and  half- 
burned  stumps  hidden  under  the  virgin  snow.  The 
cabin  sat  squat  and  brown-walled  amid  this.  On  all 
sides  the  spruce  stood  dusky-green.  Beyond,  over  in 
Lone  Moose  meadow,  Thompson,  standing  a  moment 
before  he  opened  the  door,  heard  voices  faintly,  the 
ringing  blows  of  an  axe.  Some  one  laughed. 

The  frost  stirred  him  out  of  this  momentary  inaction. 
In  a  few  minutes  he  had  a  fire  glowing  in  the  stove,  a 
lamp  lighted,  the  chill  driven  from  that  long  deserted 
room.  Except  for  that  chill  and  a  slight  closeness, 
the  cabin  was  as  he  had  left  it.  Outside,  his  two  dogs 
snarled  and  growled  over  their  evening  ration  of  dried 
fish,  and  when  they  had  consumed  the  last  scrap  curled 
hardily  in  the  snow  bank  near  the  cabin  wall. 

Thompson  had  achieved  a  hair-cut  at  Pachugan. 
Now  he  got  out  his  razor  and  painstakingly  scraped 
away  the  accumulated  beard.  He  had  allowed  it  to 
grow  upon  Joe  Lamont's  assertion  that  "  de  wheesker, 
she's  help  keep  hout  de  fros',  Bagosh."  Thompson 
doubted  the  efficiency  of  whiskers  as  a  protection,  and 
he  wanted  to  appear  like  himself.  He  made  that  con 
cession  consciously  to  his  vanity. 

He  did  not  waste  much  time.  While  he  shaved  and 
washed,  his  supper  cooked.  He  ate,  drew  the  parka 
over  his  head,  hooked  his  toes  into  the  loops  of  his 


A    FORTUNE    AND    A    FLITTING      129 

snowshoes  and  strode  off  toward  Carr's  house.  The 
timidity  that  made  him  avoid  the  place  after  his  fight 
with  Tommy  Ashe  and  subsequent  encounter  with 
Sophie  had  vanished.  The  very  eagerness  of  his  heart 
bred  a  profound  self-confidence.  He  crossed  the 
meadow  as  hurriedly  as  an  accepted  lover. 

For  a  few  seconds  there  was  no  answer  to  his  knock. 
Then  a  faint  foot-shuffle  sounded,  and  Carr's  Indian 
woman  opened  the  door.  She  blinked  a  moment  in  the 
dazzle  of  lamp  glare  on  the  snow  until,  recognizing  him, 
her  brown  face  lit  up  with  a  smile. 

"  You  come  back  Lone  Moose,  eh?  "  she  said.  "  Come 
in." 

Thompson  put  back  the  hood  of  his  parka  and  laid 
off  his  mitts.  The  room  was  hot  by  comparison  with 
outdoors.  He  looked  about.  Carr's  woman  motioned 
him  to  a  chair.  Opposite  him  the  youngest  Carr 
squatted  like  a  brown  Billiken  on  a  wolfskin.  Every 
detail  of  that  room  was  familiar.  There  was  the  heavy, 
homemade  chair  wherein  Sam  Carr  was  wont  to  sit  and 
read.  Close  by  it  stood  Sophie's  favorite  seat.  A 
nickel-plated  oil  lamp  gave  forth  a  mellow  light  under 
a  pale  birch-bark  shade.  But  he  missed  the  old  man 
with  a  pipe  in  his  mouth  and  a  book  on  his  knee,  the 
gray-eyed  girl  with  the  slow  smile  and  the  sunny  hair. 

"  Mr.  Carr  and  Sophie  —  are  they  home?  "  he  asked 
at  length. 

The  Indian  woman  shook  her  head. 

"  Sam  and  Sophie  go  'way,"  she  said  placidly.  "  No 
come  back  Lone  Moose  long  time  —  maybe  no  more. 
Sophie  leave  sumpin'  you.  I  get." 


I 


i3o  BURNED    BRIDGES 

She  crossed  the  room  to  a  shelf  above  the  serried  vol 
umes  of  Sam  Carr's  library,  lifted  the  cover  of  a  tin 
tobacco  box  and  took  out  a  letter.  This  she  gave  to 
Thompson.  Then  she  sat  down  cross-legged  on  the 
wolfskin  beside  her  youngster,  looking  up  at  her  visitor 
impassively,  her  moon  face  void  of  expression,  except 
perhaps  the  mildest  trace  of  curiosity. 

Thompson  fingered  the  envelope  for  a  second,  scarcely 
crediting  his  ears.  The  letter  in  his  hands  conveyed 
nothing.  He  did  not  recognize  the  writing.  He  was 
acutely  conscious  of  a  dreadful  heartsinking.  There 
was  a  finality  about  the  Indian  woman's  statement  that 
chilled  him. 

"  They  have  gone  away?  "he  said.  "Where?  When 
did  they  go?" 

"  Long  time.  Two  moon,"  she  replied  matter-of- 
factly.  "  Dunno  where  go.  Sam  say  he  go  —  don't 
know  when  come  back.  Leave  me  house,  plenty  blan 
ket,  plenty  grub.  Next  spring  he  say  he  send  more 
grub.  That  all.  Sophie  go  too." 

Thompson  stared  at  her.  Perhaps  he  was  not  alone 
in  facing  something  that  numbed  him. 

*'  Your  man  go  away.  Not  come  back.  You  sorry? 
You  feel  bad  ?  "  he  asked. 

Her  lips  parted  in  a  wide  smile. 

"  Sam  he  good  man,"  she  said  evenly.  "  Leave  good 
place  for  me.  I  plenty  warm,  plenty  to  eat.  I  no  care 
he  go.  Sam,  pretty  soon  he  get  old.  I  want  ketchum 
man,  I  ketchum.  No  feel  bad.  No." 

She  shook  her  head,  as  if  the  idea  amused  her.  And 
Mr.  Thompson,  perceiving  that  a  potential  desertion 


A    FORTUNE    AND    A    FLITTING      131 

which  moved  him  to  sympathy  did  not  trouble  her  at 
all,  turned  his  attention  to  the  letter  in  his  hand.  He 
opened  the  envelope.  There  were  half  a  dozen  closely 
written  sheets  within. 

Dear  freckle-faced  man:  there  is  such  a  lot  I  want 
to  say  that  I  don't  know  where  to  begin.  Perhaps 
you'll  think  it  queer  I  should  write  instead  of  telling 
you,  but  I  have  found  it  hard  to  talk  to  you,  hard 
to  say  what  I  mean  in  any  clear  sort  of  way. 
Speech  is  a  tricky  thing  when  half  of  one's  mind  is 
dwelling  on  the  person  one  is  trying  to  talk  to  and 
only  the  other  half  alive  to  what  one  is  trying  to 
express.  The  last  time  we  were  together  it  was  hard 
for  me  to  talk.  I  knew  what  I  was  going  to  do,  and  I 
didn't  like  to  tell  you.  I  wanted  to  talk  and  when  I 
tried  I  blundered.  Too  much  feeling  —  a  sort  of  in 
ward  choking.  And  the  last  few  days,  when  I  have 
become  accustomed  to  the  idea  of  going  away  and 
familiar  with  the  details  of  the  astonishing  change 
which  has  taken  place  in  my  life,  you  have  been  gone. 
I  dare  not  trust  to  a  casual  meeting  between  here  and 
Pachugan.  I  do  not  even  know  for  sure  that  you  have 
gone  to  Pachugan,  or  that  you  will  come  back  —  of 
course  I  think  you  will  or  I  should  not  write. 

But  unless  you  come  back  to-night  you  will  not  see 
me  at  Lone  Moose.  So  I'm  going  to  write  and  leave  it 
with  Cloudy  Moon  to  give  you  when  you  do  come. 

Perhaps  I'd  better  explain  a  little.  Dad  had  an  old 
bachelor  brother  who  —  it  seems  —  knew  me  when  I 
was  an  infant.  Somehow  he  and  dad  have  kept  in 
some  sort  of  touch.  This  uncle,  whom  I  do  not  remem 
ber  at  all,  grew  moderately  wealthy.  When  he  died 
some  six  months  ago  his  money  was  willed  equally  to 
dad  and  myself.  It  was  not  wholly  unexpected.  Dad 
has  often  reminded  me  of  that  ultimate  loophole  when 


I32  BURNED    BRIDGES 

I  would  grow  discontented  with  being  penned  up  in  these 
dumb  forests.  I  suppose  it  may  sound  callous  to  be 
pleased  with  a  dead  man's  gift,  but  regardless  of  the 
ways  and  means  provided  it  seems  very  wonderful  to 
me  that  at  last  I  am  going  out  into  the  big  world  that 
I  have  spent  so  many  hours  dreaming  of,  going  out  to 
where  there  are  pictures  and  music  and  beautiful  things 
of  all  sorts  —  and  men. 

You  see,  I  am  trying  to  be  brutally  frank.  I  am  try 
ing  to  empty  my  mind  out  to  you,  and  a  bit  of  my  heart. 
I  like  you  a  lot,  big  man.  I  don't  mind  making  that 
confession.  If  you  were  not  a  preacher  —  if  you  did 
not  see  life  through  such  narrow  eyes,  if  you  were  more 
tolerant,  if  you  had  the  kindly  faculty  of  putting  your 
self  in  the  other  fellow's  shoes  now  and  then,  if  only 
your  creeds  and  doctrines  and  formulas  meant  any 
thing  vital  —  I  —  but  those  cursed  ifs  cannot  be  gain 
said. 

It's  no  use,  preacher  man.  That  day  you  kissed  me 
on  the  creek  bank  and  the  morning  I  came  to  your 
cabin,  I  was  conscious  of  loving  you  —  but  it  was  under 
protest  —  under  pretty  much  the  same  protest  with 
which  you  care  for  me.  You  were  both  times  carried 
away  so  by  your  own  passion  that  for  the  moment  your 
mental  reservations  were  in  abeyance.  And  although 
perhaps  a  breath  of  that  same  passion  stirred  me  —  I 
can  admit  it  now  when  the  distance  between  us  will  not 
make  that  admission  a  weapon  in  your  hands  —  yet 
there  was  somewhere  in  me  a  little  voice  whispering: 
"  Sophie,  it  won't  do.  You  can't  mix  oil  and  water." 

There  is  a  streak  of  my  poor  weak  and  passionate 
mother  in  me.  But  there  is  also  a  counterbalancing 
streak  of  my  father's  deliberate  judgment.  He  has 
schooled  me  for  my  ultimate  protection  —  as  he  has 
often  made  plain  —  to  think,  to  know  why  I  do  a  thing, 
to  look,  even  if  ever  so  briefly,  before  I  leap.  And  I 


A    FORTUNE    AND    A    FLITTING      133 

cannot  help  it,  if  when  I  felt  tempted  to  say  the  word 
that  would  have  given  me  the  right  to  feel  the  ecstasy 
of  your  arms  drawing  me  close  and  your  lips  pressed 
on  mine,  if  in  the  same  breath  I  was  looking  ahead  and 
getting  a  disillusioning  glimpse  of  what  life  together 
would  mean  for  you  and  me,  you  with  your  deeply 
implanted  prejudices,  your  hard  and  fast  concep 
tions  of  good  and  evil,  of  right  and  wrong  —  I  what  I 
am,  a  creature  craving  pleasure,  joy,  luxury,  if  possible, 
happiness  wherever  and  whenever  I  can  assure  myself 
I  have  really  found  it.  I  wouldn't  make  a  preacher's 
wife  at  all,  I  know.  I'd  stifle  in  that  sort  of  atmos 
phere. 

Even  if  you  were  not  a  minister  —  if  you  were  just 
plain  man  —  and  I  wish  you  were  —  I  don't  know.  I 
have  to  try  my  wings,  now  that  I  have  the  opportunity. 
How  do  I  know  what  turn  my  vagrant  impulses  may 
take  ?  I  may  be  one  of  those  queer,  perverted  creatures 
(vide  Havelock  Ellis.  You'll  find  two  volumes  of  his 
psychology  of  sex  among  dad's  books)  whose  instincts 
incline  toward  many  men  in  turn.  I  don't  believe  I  am. 
A  woman's  destiny,  in  so  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  grasp 
the  feminine  function  by  what  I've  read  and  observed 
in  a  limited  way,  is  to  mate  and  to  rear  children.  I 
don't  think  I'm  a  variation  from  the  normal  type, 
except  in  my  habit  of  thinking  deeply  about  these  things 
rather  than  being  moved  by  purely  instinctive  reactions. 
I  could  be  happy  ever  so  simply,  I  think.  Mismated, 
I  should  be  tigerishly  miserable.  I  know  myself,  within 
certain  limits  —  but  men  I  do  not  know  at  all,  except 
in  theory.  I  have  never  had  a  chance  to  know  men. 
You  and  Tommy  Ashe  have  been  the  only  two  possibil 
ities.  I've  liked  you  both.  You,  dear  freckle-face, 
with  the  serious  look  and  muddled  ideas,  far  the  better 
of  the  two.  I  don't  know  why.  Tommy  Ashe  attracted 
me  physically.  I  recognized  that  ultimately  —  and 


134  BURNED    BRIDGES 

that  alone  isn't  enough,  although  it  is  probably  the 
basis  of  many  matings.  So  do  you  likewise  attract 
me,  but  with  a  tenderer,  more  protective  passion.  I'd 
like  to  mother  you,  to  tease  you  —  and  mend  your 
socks !  Oh,  my  dear,  I  can't  marry  you,  and  I  wish  I 
could.  I  shrink  from  submerging  my  own  individuality 
in  yours,  and  without  that  sacrifice  our  life  would  be 
one  continual  clash,  until  we  should  hate  each  other. 

And  still  I  know  that  I  am  going  to  be  very  lonely, 
to  feel  for  awhile  as  if  I'd  lost  something.  I  have  felt 
that  way  these  weeks  that  you  kept  to  your  cabin, 
avoiding  me.  I  have  felt  it  more  keenly  since  your 
cabin  is  empty,  and  I  don't  know  where  you  may  have 
gone,  nor  if  you  will  ever  come  back.  I  find  myself 
wondering  how  you  will  fare  in  this  grim  country. 
You're  such  a  visionary.  You're  so  impractical.  And 
neither  nature  nor  society  is  kind  to  visionaries,  to 
those  who  will  not  be  adaptable. 

Do  you  understand  what  I've  been  trying  to  tell  you  ? 
I  wonder  if  you  will?  Or  if  I  am  too  incoherent.  I  feel 
that  perhaps  I  am.  I  started  out  to  say  things  that 
were  bubbling  within  me,  and  I  am  oddly  reluctant  to 
say  them.  I  am  like  a  butterfly  emerging  from  its 
cocoon.  I  am  an  explorer  setting  out  upon  a  momen 
tous  journey.  I  am  making  an  experiment  that  fas 
cinates  me.  Yet  I  have  regrets.  I  am  uncertain.  I 
am  doing  the  thing  which  my  nature  and  my  intelligence 
impel  me  to  do,  now  that  I  have  the  opportunity.  I  am 
satisfying  a  yearning,  and  stifling  a  desire  that  could 
grow  very  strong  if  I  let  myself  go. 

I  can  see  you  scowl.  You  will  say  to  yourself  — 
looking  at  it  from  your  own  peculiar  angle  —  you  will 
sny :  "  She  is  not  worth  thinking  about."  And  unless 
I  have  been  mistaken  in  you  you  will  say  it  very  bit 
terly,  and  you  will  be  thinking  long  and  hard  when  you 
say  it.  Just  as  I,  knowing  that  I  am  wise  in  going 


A    FORTUNE    AND    A    FLITTING      135 

away  from  you,  just  as  my  reason  points  clearly  to 
the  fact  that  for  me  living  with  you  would  become  a 
daily  protest,  a  limitation  of  thought  and  act  that  I 
could  not  endure,  still  —  knowing  all  this  —  I  feel  a 
strange  reluctance  to  accepting  the  road  I  have  chosen, 
I  feel  a  disconcerting  tug  at  my  heart  when  I  think  of 
you  —  and  that  is  often. 

I  shall  change,  of  course.  So  will  you.  Psycholog 
ically,  love  doesn't  endure  to  death  —  unless  it  is  nur 
tured  by  association,  unless  it  has  its  foundation  in 
community  of  interest  and  effort,  a  mutual  affection 
that  can  survive  hard  knocks. 

Good-by,  dear  freckled  man.  You  have  taught  me 
something.  I  hope  I  have  done  as  much  for  you.  I'm 
sorry  it  couldn't  be  different.  But  —  a  man  must  be 
able  to  stand  on  his  own  feet,  eh?  I  leave  you  to  puzzle 
out  what  "  standing  on  his  own  feet  "  means.  Good-by. 

SOPHIE. 

P.  S.  Dad  says  that  if  you  winter  at  Lone  Moose 
and  care  to  kill  a  few  of  the  long  days  you  are  welcome 
to  help  yourself  to  the  books  he  left.  He  will  tell 
Cloudy  Moon  you  are  to  have  them  all  if  you  want  them, 
or  any  of  them,  any  time. 

Mr.  Thompson  folded  up  the  sheets  with  deliberate 
precision,  replaced  them  in  the  envelope  and  tucked  the 
envelope  in  his  pocket.  He  rose  to  go.  He  had  a  feel 
ing  of  wanting  to  escape  from  that  room  which  those 
penned  pages  and  swiftly  acute  memories  had  filled  with 
a  presence  it  hurt  him  terribly  to  recall.  His  eye  fell 
upon  the  rows  of  Carr's  books,  orderly  upon  their 
shelves.  The  postscript,  fresh  in  his  sense-impressions 
because  it  came  last,  and  the  sight  of  the  books,  roused 
him  to  a  swelling  fury  of  anger. 

The   heresies    of   Huxley    and    Darwin!     The   blas- 


136 


BURNED    BRIDGES 


phemies  of  Tom  Paine !  The  economic  diatribes  which 
began  with  Adam  Smith  and  continued  in  multiplying 
volumes  down  to  the  latest  emanation  from  professorial 
intellects  in  every  civilized  corner  of  the  earth.  The 
bulky,  bitter  tomes  of  Marx  and  Engels !  The  Lorias 
and  Leacocks,  the  tribe  of  Gumplowicz,  and  Haeckel, 
the  Lubbocks  and  Burtons,  all  that  vast  array  of  minds 
which  calmly  dissect  man  and  his  manifold  activities, 
that  draw  deeply  upon  every  branch  of  human  knowl 
edge  to  make  clear  the  age-old  evolution  and  revolution 
in  both  the  physical  and  intellectual  realm  --  and  which 
generally  leave  gods  and  religions  out  of  account  except 
to  analyze  them  as  manifestations  of  social  phenomena. 
Those  damnable  documents  which  he  had  never  read, 
but  which  he  had  been  taught  to  shun  as  the  product  of 
perverted  intellects,  blasts  of  scientific  artillery,  un 
kindly  trained  upon  sacred  concepts! 

He  put  on  his  parka  hood,  gave  an  abrupt  "  good 
evening  "  to  Cloudy  Moon,  and  went  out  into  the  night 
which  had  deepened  its  shadows  while  he  sat  within. 

The  North  lay  hushed  and  hard  under  a  wan  moon. 
The  teeth  of  the  frost  nipped  at  him.  A  wolf  lifted  a 
dismal  howl  as  he  crossed  the  meadow.  And  his  anger 
died.  That  flare  of  resentment  was,  he  recognized,  but 
a  burst  of  wrath  against  Sophie,  a  passionate  protest 
at  her  desertion.  She  had  loved  him  and  she  had  left 
him,  deliberately,  calculatingly,  left  him  and  love,  for 
the  world,  the  flesh  and  the  devil  —  tempted  by  a  for 
tune  untimely  directed  to  her  hands. 

He  did  not  mind  about  the  books.  Doubtless  they 
were  well  enough  in  their  way,  a  source  of  practical 


A    FORTUNE    AND    A    FLITTING      137 

knowledge.  But  he  did  not  care  a  curse  about  books 
or  knowledge  or  faith  as  he  walked  through  the  snow 
across  that  gleaming  white  patch  in  the  dusky  forest. 
His  heart  cried  aloud  in  forlorn  protest  against  the 
surging  emotions  that  beset  him.  His  eyes  stung. 
And  he  fought  against  that  inarticulate  misery,  against 
the  melancholy  that  settled  upon  him  like  a  dank  mist. 

A  man  must  stand  upon  his  own  feet !  That  stabbed 
at  him,  cut  across  his  mood  like  a  slap  in  the  face. 
Wasn't  that  what  he  was  learning  to  do?  He  lifted  his 
head  with  a  sudden  spirit  of  defiance,  a  bitter  resolution. 
A  man  must  stand  on  his  own  feet.  Well,  he  would. 
If  he  could  no  longer  pray  and  be  comforted,  he  could 
grit  his  teeth  and  struggle  and  endure.  He  had  begun 
to  perceive  that  a  man  must  do  that  physically  —  set 
his  teeth  and  endure.  In  the  less  concrete  matter  of  the 
spirit  it  was  much  the  same. 

He  turned  for  a  look  at  the  yellow  windows  of  Sam 
Carr's  house.  It  was  a  hollow,  empty  place  now,  one 
that  he  never  wanted  to  see  again,  like  a  room  in  which 
a  beloved  person  has  died  and  from  which  the  body  has 
been  carried  away.  His  eyes  lingered  on  the  dim  bulk 
of  the  house,  dusky  black  and  white  like  a  sketch  in 
charcoal. 

"  Another  bridge  burned,"  he  said  wistfully  to 
himself. 

He  faced  about,  crossed  the  dividing  fringe  of  timber, 
passing  near  the  walls  of  his  unfinished  church.  A 
wry  smile  twisted  his  lips.  That  would  remain,  the 
uncompleted  monument  of  his  good  intentions,  the  sub 
stance  of  an  unrealizable,  impractical  dream. 


138  BURNED    BRIDGES 

Beyond  that,  as  he  came  out  into  his  own  clearing, 
he  saw  a  light  in  his  cabin,  where  he  had  left  no  light. 
When  he  came  to  the  door  another  toboggan  lay  beside 
his  own.  Strange  dogs  shifted  furtively  about  at  his 
approach.  Warned  by  these  signs  he  opened  the  door 
full  of  a  curiosity  as  to  who,  in  the  accustomed  fashion 
of  the  North,  had  stopped  and  made  himself  at  home. 

When  the  man  sitting  before  the  stove  with  his  feet 
on  the  rusty  front  turned  his  head  at  Thompson's  en 
trance,  he  saw,  with  a  mild  turn  of  surprise,  that  his 
visitor  was  Tommy  Ashe. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

PARTNERS 

"  HELLO,  old  man,"  Tommy  greeted  cheerfully. 
"How  goes  it?" 

If  it  occurred  to  either  of  them  that  the  last  time 
they  faced  each  other  it  had  been  in  hot  anger  and  in 
earnest  endeavor  to  inflict  bodily  damage,  they  were 
not  embarrassed  by  that  recollection,  nor  did  either 
man  hold  rancor.  Their  hands  gripped  sturdily.  It 
seemed  to  Thompson,  indeed,  that  a  face  had  never  been 
so  welcome.  He  did  not  want  to  sit  alone  and  think. 
Even  apart  from  that  he  was  uncommonly  glad  to  see 
Tommy  Ashe. 

"  It  doesn't  go  much  at  all,"  he  said.  "  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  I  just  got  back  to  Lone  Moose  to-night  after 
being  away  for  weeks." 

"  Same  here,"  Tommy  responded.  "  I've  been  trap 
ping.  Heard  you'd  gone  to  Pachugan,  but  thought  it 
was  only  for  supplies.  I  got  in  to  my  own  diggings 
to-night,  and  the  shack  was  so  infernally  cold  and 
dismal  I  mushed  on  down  here  on  the  off  chance  that 
you'd  have  a  fire  and  wouldn't  mind  chinning  awhile. 
Lord,  but  a  fellow  surely  gets  fed  up  with  his  own  com 
pany,  back  here.  At  least  I  do." 


140  BURNED    BRIDGES 

Thompson  awoke  to  hospitable  formalities. 

"  Have  you  had  supper?  "  he  asked. 

"  Stopped  and  made  tea  about  sundown,'*  Tommy 
replied.  *'  Thanks  just  the  same.  Gad,  but  it  was 
cold  this  afternoon.  The  air  fairly  crackled." 

'*  Yes,"  Thompson  agreed.     "  It  was  very  cold." 

He  drew  a  stool  up  to  the  stove  and  sat  down. 
Tommy  got  out  his  pipe  and  began  whittling  shavings 
of  tobacco  off  a  plug. 

"  Did  you  know  that  Carr  and  his  daughter  have 
gone  away?  "  Thompson  asked  abruptly. 

Tommy  nodded. 

"  Donald  Lachlan  —  I've  been  trapping  partners 
with  him,  y'know  —  Donald  was  home  a  month  or  so 
since.  Told  me  when  he  came  back  that  the  Carrs  were 
gone.  I  wasn't  surprised." 

"No?"  Thompson  could  not  forbear  an  inquiring 
inflection  on  the  monosyllable. 

"  No,"  Tommy  continued  a  bit  wistfully.  "  I  was 
talking  to  Carr  a  few  days  after  you  and  I  had  that  — 
that  little  argument  of  ours."  He  smiled.  "  He  told 
me  then  that  after  fifteen  years  up  here  he  was  inclined 
to  try  civilization  again.  Mostly  to  give  Sophie  a 
chance  to  see  what  the  world  was  like,  I  imagine.  I 
gathered  from  his  talk  that  some  sort  of  windfall  was 
coming  his  way.  But  I  daresay  you  know  more  about 
it  than  I  do." 

"  No,"  Thompson  replied.  "  I've  been  away  —  a 
hundred  miles  north  of  Pachugan  —  for  two  months. 
I  didn't  know  anything  about  it  till  to-night." 

Tommy  looked  at  him  keenly. 


PARTNERS  141 

"  Jolted  you,  eh,  old  man?  "  There  was  a  quiet  sym 
pathy  in  his  tone. 

"  A  little,"  Thompson  admitted  grimly.  "  But  I'm 
getting  used  to  jolts.  I  had  no  claim  on  —  on  them." 

"  We  both  lost  out,"  Tommy  Ashe  said  thoughtfully. 
"  Sophie  Carr  is  one  woman  in  ten  thousand.  I  think 
she's  the  most  remarkable  girl  I  ever  came  across  any 
where.  She  knows  what  she  wants,  and  neither  of  us 
quite  measured  up.  She  liked  me  too  —  but  she 
wouldn't  marry  me.  Before  you  came  she  tried  to 
convince  me  of  that.  And  I  wasn't  slow  to  see  that 
you  interested  her,  that  as  a  man  she  gave  you  a  good 
deal  of  thought,  although  your  —  er  —  your  profes 
sion's  one  she  rather  makes  light  of.  Women  are  queer. 
I  didn't  know  but  you  might  have  taken  her  by  storm. 
And  then  again,  I  rather  imagined  she'd  back  off  when 
you  got  serious." 

"  I  was  a  fool,"  Thompson  muttered. 

"  I  wouldn't  say  that,"  Tommy  responded  gently. 
"*A  man  couldn't  resist  her.  I've  known  a  lot  of  women 
one  way  and  another.  I  never  knew  one  could  hold  a 
candle  to  her.  She  has  a  mind  like  a  steel  trap,  that 
girl.  She  understood  things  in  a  flash,  moods  and  all 
that.  She'd  make  a  real  chum,  as  well  as  a  wife.  Most 
women  aren't,  y'know.  They're  generally  just  one  or 
the  other.  No,  I'd  never  call  myself  a  fool  for  liking 
Sophie  too  well.  In  fact  a  man  would  be  a  fool  if  he 
didn't. 

"  She  likes  men  too,"  Tommy  went  on  musingly. 
"  She  knew  it.  I  suppose  she'll  be  friendly  and  curious 
and  chummy,  and  hurt  men  without  meaning  to  until 


I42  BURNED    BRIDGES, 

she  finds  the  particular  sort  of  chap  she  wants.     Oh, 
well." 

"  How's  the  trapping?  " 

Thompson  changed  the  subject  abruptly.  He  could 
not  bear  to  talk  about  that,  even  to  Tommy  Ashe  who 
understood  out  of  his  own  experience,  who  had  exhibited 
a  rare  and  kindly  understanding. 

"  I've  been  wondering  if  I  could  make  a  try  at  that. 
I've  got  to  do  something.  I've  quit  the  ministry." 

Tommy  looked  at  him  for  a  second. 

"  Why  did  you  get  out?  "  he  asked  bluntly. 

"  I'm  not  fitted  for  it,"  Thompson  returned.  "  I've 
been  through  hell  for  four  months,  and  I've  lost  some 
thing  —  some  of  that  sublime  faith  that  a  man  must 
have.  I'm  not  certain  about  a  lot  of  things  I  have 
always  taken  for  granted.  I'm  not  certain  I  have  an 
immortal  soul  which  is  worth  saving,  let  alone  consid 
ering  myself  peculiarly  fitted  to  save  other  people's 
souls.  I'd  be  like  a  blind  man  leading  people  with  good 
eyes.  It  has  come  to  seem  to  me  that  I've  been  trained 
for  the  ministry  as  a  carpenter  is  trained  for  his  trade. 
I  can't  go  on  feeling  like  that.  I'm  too  much  interested 
in  my  own  personal  salvation.  I'm  too  keenly  con 
scious  of  a  tremendous  ignorance  about  tremendously 
important  things  to  continue  setting  myself  up  as  a 
finger  post  for  other  men's  spiritual  guidance.  If  1 
stay  with  the  church  now  it  seems  to  me  it  will  only  be 
because  I  lack  courage  to  get  out  and  make  my  living 
along  lines  that  won't  be  so  easy.  I'd  despise  myself 
if  I  did  that.  So  I've  resigned  —  quite  a  while  ago,  to 
be  exact.  I've  been  working  for  the  H.  B.  two  months. 


PARTNERS  143 

That's  why  I  asked  about  the  trapping.  I've  been 
casting  about  for  what  I'd  best  try  next." 

Tommy  sat  silent.  When  he  did  speak  he  touched 
very  briefly  on  Thompson's  confession  of  faith  —  or 
rather  the  lack  of  it. 

"  When  a  man's  heart  isn't  in  a  thing,"  said  he,  "  it's 
better  for  him  to  drop  it.  About  the  trapping,  now  — 
I  don't  think  you'd  do  much  at  that  with  the  season 
so  far  along.  This  district  is  pretty  well  covered  by 
the  natives.  You'd  get  into  difficulties  right  off  the  bat 
over  setting  traps  on  their  territory.  They  have  a 
rude  sort  of  understanding  about  where  their  several 
trap  lines  shall  run.  And  for  some  reason  or  other  furs 
are  getting  scarce.  Up  where  young  Lachlan  and  I 
were  it  was  pretty  fair  for  awhile.  We  took  some  good 
skins.  Lately  we  did  a  lot  of  trap-tending  for  nothing 
much.  I  got  fed  up  with  it.  Fact  is,  I'm  about  fed  up 
with  this  region.  I  think  I'll  pull  out." 

"  I've  been  thinking  the  same  thing,"  Thompson  ob 
served.  "  There  isn't  much  here  for  a  man." 

"  Not  now,"  Tommy  amended.  "  I'd  have  been  gone 
long  ago  only  for  Sophie  Carr.  That  was  the  magnet 
that  held  me.  It  happens  that  I've  come  to  something 
of  your  pass,  right  now.  I  can't  afford  to  loaf  any 
longer,  living  off  the  wilderness.  I  had  a  bit  of  an 
income  to  keep  me  in  loose  change  when  I  wanted  a 
taste  of  towns.  But  that's  been  chopped  off  —  prob 
ably  for  good.  I'm  strictly  on  my  own  henceforth. 
Every  penny  I  spend  will  first  have  to  be  earned.  And 
so,"  he  hesitated  briefly,  "  I've  considered  a  move  to 
the  Coast,  the  Pacific,  y'know.  Going  over  the  conti- 


144  BURNED    BRIDGES 

nental  divide  while  the  snow  makes  a  dog  team  useful. 
Then  I'd  go  down  the  western  streams  by  boat  —  dug 
out  canoe  or  bateaux,  or  whatever  simple  craft  a  man 
could  make  himself  in  the  woods.  Probably  be  the  last 
big  trip  I'll  get  a  chance  at.  I'll  have  roughed  it  clear 
across  North  America  then,  and  I  rather  fancy  wind 
ing  up  that  way.  But  it's  a  big  undertaking  single- 
handed.  I'm  not  so  partial  to  an  Indian  for  company ; 
besides  the  fact  that  I'd  have  to  pay  him  wages  and 
dollars  count  with  me  now.  A  fellow  likes  some  one  he 
can  talk  to.  If  you've  cut  the  cloth  and  are  at  loose 
ends,  why  not  come  along?  " 

Thompson  looked  at  him  a  second. 

"  Do  you  mean  it  ?  "  he  asked.  "  I'm  not  what  you'd 
call  a  good  hand  on  the  trail.  You  might  find  me  a 
handicap." 

Tommy  grinned. 

"  I've  got  the  impression  you're  a  chap  that  can 
hold  his  end  up,"  he  drawled.  "  I've  an  idea  we'd  make 
a  go  of  it,  all  right." 

"  I  believe  we  would,"  Thompson  asserted  impul 
sively.  "  Hanged  if  I  haven't  a  mind  to  take  you  at 
your  word." 

"  Do,"  Tommy  urged  earnestly.  "  The  Pacific  coast 
has  this  part  of  the  interior  frazzled  when  it  comes  to 
opportunities.  That's  what  we're  both  after,  isn't  it? 
An  opportunity  to  get  on  —  in  plain  English,  to  make 
some  money?  It's  really  simple  to  get  up  the  Peace 
and  through  the  mountains  and  on  down  to  southeast 
ern  Alaska  or  somewhere  in  northern  B.  C.  It  merely 
means  some  hard  mushing.  And  neither  of  us  is  ve 


PARTNERS  145 

soft.     You've  begun  to  cut  your  eyeteeth  on  the  wil 
derness.     I  can  see  that." 

"  Yes,  I  believe  I  have,"  Thompson  assented,  "  I'm 
learning  to  take  as  a  matter  of  course  a  good  many 
things  that  I  used  to  rather  dread.  I  find  I  have  a, 
hankering  to  be  on  the  move.  Maybe  I'll  end  up  as  a 
tramp.  If  you  want  a  partner  for  that  journey  I'm 
your  man." 

"  Shake,"  Tommy  thrust  out  his  hand  with  a  boyish 
sort  of  enthusiasm.  "  We'll  have  no  end  of  a  time." 

They  sat  up  till  a  most  unseemly  hour  talking  over 
the  details  of  that  long  trek.  Tommy  Ashe  was  warmed 
with  the  prospect,  and  some  of  his  enthusiasm  fired 
Thompson,  proved  strangely  infectious.  The  wander 
lust,  which  Wesley  Thompson  was  only  beginning  to 
feel  in  vague  stirrings,  had  long  since  become  the  chief 
motif  in  Tommy's  life.  He  did  not  unburden  himself 
at  length.  It  was  simply  through  stray  references, 
offhand  bits  of  talk,  as  they  checked  up  resources  and 
distances,  that  Thompson  pieced  out  the  four  years 
of  Ashe's  wanderings  across  Canada  —  four  years 
of  careless,  happy-go-lucky  drifting  along  streams  and 
through  virgin  forest,  sometimes  alone,  sometimes  with  a 
partner ;  four  years  of  hunting,  fishing,  and  camping  all 
the  way  from  Labrador  to  Lone  Moose.  Tommy  had 
worked  hard  at  this  fascinating  game.  He  confessed 
that  with  revenue  enough  to  keep  him  going,  to  vary  the 
wilderness  with  an  occasional  month  in  some  city,  he 
could  go  on  doing  that  sort  of  thing  with  an  infinite 
amount  of  pleasure. 

But  something  had  gone  wrong  with  the  source  of 


146  BURNED    BRIDGES 

the  funds  that  came  quarterly.  Tommy  did  not  appear 
to  regret  that.  But  he  realized  its  significance.  He 
would  have  to  work.  Having  to  work  he  meant  to 
work  as  he  had  played,  with  all  his  heart  and  to  some 
purpose.  He  had  an  ambitious  idea  of  pressing  For 
tune  to  her  lair.  He  was  young  and  very  sanguine. 
His  cheerful  optimism  was  the  best  possible  antidote 
for  the  state  of  mind  in  which  he  found  Thompson. 

They  went  to  bed  at  last.  With  breakfast  behind 
them  they  went  up  to  Ashe's  cabin  and  brought  down 
to  Thompson's  a  miscellaneous  collection  of  articles 
that  Tommy  had  left  behind  when  he  went  trapping. 
Tommy  had  four  good  dogs  in  addition  to  the  brown 
retriever.  By  adding  Thompson's  pair  and  putting  all 
their  goods  on  one  capacious  toboggan  they  achieved  a 
first-class  outfit. 

In  the  North  when  a  man  sets  out  on  a  winter  jour 
ney,  or  any  sort  of  journey,  in  fact,  his  preparations 
are  speedily  made.  He  loads  his  sled,  hitches  his  dogs, 
takes  his  rifle  in  hand,  hooks  his  toes  in  his  snowshoes 
and  goes  his  way. 

This  is  precisely  the  course  Tommy  Ashe  and  Thomp 
son  followed.  Having  decided  to  go,  they  went,  and 
neither  of  them  took  it  as  a  serious  matter  that  they 
were  on  the  first  leg  of  a  twelve-hundred-mile  jaunt  in 
the  deep  of  winter  across  a  primitive  land. 

To  be  exact  in  dates  it  was  February  the  first  when 
they  touched  at  Pachugan,  where  Tommy  traded  in  his 
furs,  and  where  they  took  on  a  capacity  load  of  grub. 
West  of  the  lake  head  they  bore  across  a  low,  wooded 
delta  and  debouched  upon  Peace  River's  frozen  surface. 


PARTNERS  147 

After  that  it  was  plod-plod-plod,  one  day  very  much 
like  another,  cold  with  coldness  of  the  sub-Arctic,  the 
river  a  white  band  through  heavy  woods,  nights  that 
were  crisp  and  still  as  death,  the  sky  a  vast  dome 
sprinkled  with  flickering  stars,  brilliant  at  times  with 
the  Northern  Lights,  that  strange  glow  that  flashes 
and  shimmers  above  the  Pole,  now  a  banner  of  flame, 
again  only  a  misty  sheen.  Sometimes  it  seemed  an 
unreality,  that  silence,  that  immensity  of  hushed  forest, 
those  vast  areas  in  which  life  was  not  a  factor.  When 
a  blizzard  whooped  out  of  the  northern  quarter,  holding 
them  close  to  the  little  tent  and  the  tiny  sheet-iron  stove, 
when  they  sat  for  hours  with  their  hands  clasped  over 
their  knees,  listening  to  the  voice  of  the  wilderness 
whispering  sibilantly  in  the  swaying  boughs,  it  seemed 
utterly  impossible  that  these  frigid  solitudes  could  ever 
know  the  kindliness  of  summer,  that  those  cold  white 
spaces  could  ever  be  warm  and  sunny  and  bright  with 
flowers. 

But  there  were  compensations.  Two  men  cannot  eat 
out  of  the  same  pot  —  figuratively  speaking  —  sleep 
huddled  close  together  for  the  warmth  that  is  in  their 
bodies,  hear  no  voices  but  their  own,  exert  a  common 
effort  to  a  common  end  day  after  day,  until  the  days 
become  weeks  and  the  weeks  marshal  themselves  into 
calendar  months  —  no  two  men  born  of  woman  can  sus 
tain  this  enforced  intimacy  over  a  long  period  without 
acquiring  a  positive  attitude  toward  each  other.  They 
achieve  a  contemptuous  tolerance,  or  they  achieve  a 
rare  and  lasting  friendship.  It  was  the  fortune  of 
Tommy  Ashe  and  Wesley  Thompson  to  cultivate  the 


148  BURNED    BRIDGES 

latter.  They  arrived  at  it  by  degrees,  in  many  forty- 
below-zero  camps  along  the  Peace,  in  the  shadow  of 
those  towering  mountains  where  the  Peace  cuts  through 
the  backbone  of  North  America.  It  grew  out  of  mutual 
respect,  a  wordless  sense  of  understanding,  a  conviction 
that  each  did  his  best  to  play  the  game  fair  and  square. 

So  that,  as  they  worked  westward  and  gave  over  their 
toboggan  on  the  waters  of  a  stream  far  beyond  the 
Rockies,  when  Spring  began  to  touch  the  North  with 
her  magic  wand  they  grew  merry,  galvanized  by  the 
spirit  of  adventure.  They  could  laugh,  and  sometimes 
they  could  sing.  And  they  planned  largely,  with  the 
sanguine  air  of  youth.  On  the  edges  —  not  in  the 
depths  —  of  that  wild  and  rugged  land  where  manifold 
natural  resources  lay  untouched,  it  seemed  as  if  a  man 
had  but  to  try  hard  enough  in  order  to  succeed.  They 
had  conquered  an  ominous  stretch  of  wilderness.  They 
would  conquer  with  equal  facility  whatever  barriers 
they  found  between  them  and  fortune. 

The  sweep  of  Spring's  progress  across  the  land  found 
them  west  of  the  Coast  Range  by  May,  in  a  wild  and 
forbidding  region  where  three  major  streams  —  the 
Skeena,  the  Stikine,  and  the  Naas  —  take  their  rise.  For 
many  days  their  advance  was  through  grim  canyons, 
over  precipitous  slopes,  across  glaciers,  bearing  always 
westward,  until  the  maps  with  which  Tommy  Ashe  was 
equipped  showed  them  they  were  descending  the  Stikine. 
Here  they  rested  in  a  country  full  of  game  animals  and 
birds  and  fish,  until  the  height  of  the  spring  torrents 
had  passed.  During  this  time  they  fashioned  a  canoe 
out  of  a  cedar  tree,  big  enough  to  carry  them  and  the 


PARTNERS  149 

dogs  which  had  served  so  faithfully  as  pack  animals 
over  that  last  mountainous  stretch.  The  Stikine  was 
swift  and  forbidding,  but  navigable.  Thus  at  last, 
in  the  first  days  of  the  salmon  run,  they  came  out  upon 
tidewater,  down  to  Wrangel  by  the  sea. 

There  was  in  Thompson's  mind  no  more  thought  of 
burned  bridges,  no  heartache  and  empty  longing,  only 
an  eagerness  of  anticipation.  He  had  come  a  long 
way,  in  a  double  sense.  He  had  learned  something  of 
the  essential  satisfaction  of  striving.  A  tough  trail 
had  served  to  toughen  the  mental  and  moral  as  well  as 
the  physical  fiber  of  him.  He  did  not  know  what  lay 
ahead,  but  whatever  did  so  lie  would  never  dismay  him 
again  as  things  had  done  in  the  past,  in  that  too-recent 
vivid  past. 

He  was  quite  sure  of  this.  His  mood  was  tinctured 
with  recklessness  when  he  summed  it  up  in  words.  A 
man  must  stand  on  his  own  feet! 

He  would  never  forget  that  sentence.  It  was  burned 
into  his  memory.  He  was  beginning  to  understand  what 
Sophie  Carr  meant  by  it.  Looking  backward  he  could 
see  that  he  never  had  stood  on  his  own  feet  like  a  man. 
Always  he  had  required  props.  And  they  had  been 
forthcoming  from  the  time  the  prim  spinster  aunts  took 
training  in  hand  until  he  came  to  Lone  Moose  self- 
msciously,  rather  flauntingly,  waving  the  banner  of 
righteousness.  Thompson  could  smile  wryly  at  him- 
elf  now.  He  could  see  the  unreckonable  element  of 
chance  functioning  largely  in  a  man's  life. 

And  in  the  meantime  he  went  about  Wrangel  looking 
for  a  job! 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE    RESTLESS   FOOT 

BEING  in  a  town  that  was  at  once  a  frontier  camp 
and  a  minor  seaport,  and  being  there  at  a  season  when 
the  major  industry  of  salmon-packing  was  at  its  height, 
the  search  of  Tommy  Ashe  and  Thompson  for  a  job 
was  soon  ended.  They  were  taken  on  as  cannery  hands 
—  a  "  hand  "  being  the  term  for  unskilled  laborers  as 
distinguished  from  fishermen,  can  machine  experts, 
engineers  and  the  like.  As  such  they  were  put  to  all 
sorts  of  tasks,  work  that  usually  found  them  at  the 
day's  end  weary,  dirty  with  fish  scales  and  gurry,  and 
more  than  a  little  disgusted.  But  they  were  getting 
three  dollars  and  a  half  .a  day,  and  it  was  practically 
clear,  which  furnished  a  strong  incentive  to  stick  it  out 
as  long  as  the  season  lasted  —  a  matter  of  two  more 
months. 

"  By  that  time,"  said  Tommy  Ashe,  "  we'll  have 
enough  coin  to  venture  into  fresh  fields.  My  word,  but 
we  do  earn  this  money.  It's  the  nastiness  I  object  to, 
not  the  work.  I  shan't  forget  this  first  hundred  dollars 
I've  earned  by  the  sweat  of  my  manly  brow." 

In  the  fullness  of  time  the  salmon  run  came  to  an 


THE    RESTLESS    FOOT  151 

end.  The  pack  being  finished  the  hands  were  paid  off. 
In  company  with  half  a  hundred  others,  Ashe  and 
Thompson  were  shipped  from  the  Suchoi  Bay  Canneries 
back  to  Wrangel  again. 

In  Wrangel,  before  they  had  been  there  four  hours, 
Thompson  got  the  offer  of  work  in  a  pile  camp.  He 
took  his  prospective  job  under  advisement  and  hunted 
up  Tommy  Ashe.  Tommy  dangled  his  legs  over  the 
edge  of  the  bed  in  their  room,  and  considered  the  matter. 

"  No,"  he  said  finally.  "  I  don't  believe  111  take  it 
on.  I  think  I'll  go  down  to  Vancouver.  I'm  about 
two  hundred  dollars  strong,  and  I  don't  really  see  any 
thing  but  a  poor  sort  of  living  in  this  laboring-man 
stuff.  I'm  going  to  try  some  business  proposition. 
I've  got  a  pretty  fair  acquaintance  with  motor  cars. 
I  might  be  able  to  get  in  on  the  selling  end  of  the  game, 
and  there  is  good  money  in  that  in  the  way  of  com 
missions.  I  know  some  people  there  who  should  be  able 
to  show  me  the  ropes.  In  a  big  live  seaport  like  that 
there  must  be  chances.  Yes,  I  think  I'll  try  Vancouver. 
You'd  better  come  too,  Wes." 

Thompson  shook  his  head.  He  knew  nothing  of 
business.  He  had  no  trade.  For  a  time  —  until  he 
came  face  to  face  with  an  opportunity  he  could  recog 
nize  as  such  —  he  shrank  from  tackling  a  city.  He 
had  not  quite  Tommy's  confidence  in  himself. 

"  No,"  he  said.  "  I'd  like  to  —  but  I  don't  believe 
I'd  make  good.  And  I  don't  want  to  get  in  a  position 
where  I'd  have  to  be  looking  for  somebody  to  throw  me 
a  life  line.  I  don't  seem  to  mind  common  hard  work 
so  much.  I  don't  imagine  I  could  jump  right  into  a 


152  BURNED    BRIDGES 

town  and  be  any  better  off  than  I  would  be  here.  When 
I  get  a  little  more  money  ahead  I'll  be  tempted  to  take 
a  chance  on  a  city.  But  not  yet." 

From  this  position  Tommy's  persuasion  failed  to 
move  him.  Tommy  was  earnest  enough,  and  perfectly 
sincere  in  promising  to  see  him  through.  But  that  was 
not  what  Thompson  wanted.  He  was  determined  that 
in  so  far  as  he  was  able  he  would  make  his  own  way  un 
aided.  He  wanted  to  be  through  with  props  forever. 
That  had  become  a  matter  of  pride  with  him.  He  went 
back  and  told  the  pile-camp  boss  that  he  would  report  in 
two  days. 

A  southbound  steamer  sailed  forty-eight  hours  later. 
She  backed  away  from  the  Wrangel  wharf  with  Tommy 
waving  his  hand  to  his  partner  on  the  pierhead. 
Thompson  went  back  to  their  room  feeling  a  trifle  blue, 
as  one  does  at  parting  from  a  friend.  But  it  was  not 
the  moodiness  of  uncertainty.  He  knew  what  he  was 
going  to  do.  He  had  simply  got  used  to  Tommy  being 
at  his  elbow,  to  chatting  with  him,  to  knowing  that 
some  one  was  near  with  whom  he  could  try  to  unravel  a 
knotty  problem  or  hold  his  peace  as  he  chose.  He 
missed  Tommy.  But  he  knew  that  although  they  had 
been  partners  over  a  hard  country,  had  bucked  a  hard 
trail  like  men  and  grown  nearer  to  each  other  in  the 
stress  of  it,  they  could  not  be  Siamese  twins.  His  road 
and  Tommy's  road  was  bound  to  fork.  A  man  had  to 
follow  his  individual  inclination,  to  live  his  own  life 
according  to  his  lights.  And  Tommy's  was  for  town 
.  and  the  business  world,  while  his  —  as  yet  —  was  not. 

So  for  the  next  four  months  Thompson  lived  and 


THE    RESTLESS    FOOT  153 

worked  on  a  wooded  promontory  a  few  miles  north  of 
Wrangel,  very  near  the  mouth  of  the  river  down  which 
he  and  Tommy  Ashe  had  come  to  the  sea.  He  was 
housed  with  thirty  other  men  in  a  bunkhouse  of  hand- 
split  cedar;  he  labored  every  day  felling  and  trimming 
tall  slender  poles  for  piling  that  would  ultimately  hold 
up  bridges  and  wharves.  The  crew  was  a  cosmopolitan 
lot  so  far  as  nationality  went.  In  addition  they  were 
a  tougher  lot  than  Thompson  had  ever  encountered. 
He  never  quite  fitted  in.  They  knew  him  for  something 
of  a  tenderfoot,  and  they  had  not  the  least  respect  for 
his  size  —  until  he  took  on  and  soundly  whipped  two 
of  them  in  turn  before  the  bunkhouse  door,  with  the 
rest  of  the  thirty,  the  boss  and  the  cook  for  spectators. 
Thompson  did  not  come  off  scathless,  but  he  did  come 
off  victor,  although  he  was  a  bloody  sight  at  the  finish. 
But  he  fought  in  sheer  desperation,  because  otherwise 
he  could  not  live  in  the  camp.  And  he  smiled  to  him 
self  more  than  once  after  that  fracas,  when  he  noted 
the  different  attitude  they  took  toward  him.  Might 
was  perhaps  not  right,  but  unless  a  man  was  both  will 
ing  and  able  to  fight  for  his  rights  in  the  workaday 
world  that  was  opening  up  to  him,  he  could  never  be 
very  sure  that  his  rights  would  be  respected. 

Along  with  this  incidental  light  upon  the  ways  of  his 
fellow  working-men  he  learned  properly  how  to  swing 
an  axe ;  he  grew  accustomed  to  dragging  all  day  on  the 
end  of  a  seven-foot  crosscut  saw,  to  lift  and  strain 
with  a  cant  hook.  The  hardening  process,  begun  at 
Lone  Moose,  continued  unceasingly.  If  mere  physical 
hardihood  had  been  his  end,  he  could  easily  have  passed 


154  BURNED    BRIDGES 

for  a  finished  product.  He  could  hold  his  own  with 
those  broad-shouldered  Swedes  and  Michigan  loggers 
at  any  turn  of  the  road.  And  that  was  a  long  way  for 
a  man  like  Thompson  to  come  in  the  course  of  twelve 
months.  If  he  could  have  been  as  sure  of  a  sound, 
working  philosophy  of  life  as  he  was  of  the  fitness  of 
his  muscles  he  would  have  been  well  satisfied.  Some 
times  it  was  a  puzzle  to  him  why  men  existed,  why  the 
will  to  live  was  such  a  profound  force,  when  living  was 
a  struggle,  a  vexation,  an  aimless  eating  and  sleeping 
and  working  like  a  carthorse.  Where  was  there  any 
plan,  any  universal  purpose  at  all? 

Having  never  learned  dissipation  as  a  form  of  amuse 
ment,  nor  having  yet  been  driven  to  it  by  the  sheer 
deadliness  of  incessant,  monotonous  labor,  Thompson 
was  able  to  save  his  money.  When  he  went  to  Wrangel 
once  a  month  he  got  a  bath,  a  hair-cut,  and  some  maga 
zines  to  read,  perhaps  an  article  or  two  of  necessary 
clothing.  That  was  all  his  financial  outlay.  He  came 
back  as  clear-eyed  as  when  he  left,  with  the  bulk  of  his 
wages  in  his  pocket,  where  some  of  his  fellows  returned 
with  empty  pockets  and  aching  heads. 

Wherefore,  when  the  winter  snows  at  last  closed  down 
the  pile  camp  Thompson  had  accumulated  four  hundred 
dollars.  Also  he  had  made  an  impression  on  the  con 
tractor  by  his  steadiness,  to  such  an  extent  that  the 
man  offered  him  a  hundred  and  twenty-five  dollars  a 
month  to  come  back  and  take  charge  of  a  similar  camp 
in  the  spring.  But  Thompson,  like  Tommy  Ashe,  had 
grown  troubled  with  the  wandering  foot.  The  money 
in  hand  gave  him  security  against  want  in  strange 


THE    RESTLESS    FOOT  155 

places.  He  would  not  promise  to  be  on  hand  in  the 
spring.  Like  Tommy,  he  had  a  notion  to  try  town,  to 
see  for  himself  what  opportunity  town  afforded.  And 
he  pitched  on  Vancouver,  not  alone  because  Tommy 
Ashe  was  there,  but  because  it  was  the  biggest  port  on 
Canada's  western  coast.  He  had  heard  once  from 
Tommy.  He  was  a  motor-car  salesman  now,  and  he 
was  doing  well.  But  Tommy's  letter  was  neither  long 
nor  graphic  in  its  descriptions.  It  left  a  good  deal  of 
Vancouver  to  Thompson's  imagination.  However,  like 
the  bear  that  went  over  the  mountain,  Thompson 
thought  he  would  go  and  see  what  he  could  see. 

Wrangel  lies  well  within  the  Inside  Passage,  that 
great  waterway  which  is  formed  between  the  mainland 
and  a  chain  of  islands  that  sweeps  from  Cape  Flattery 
in  the  south  to  the  landward  end  of  the  Aleutians.  All 
the  steamers  that  ply  between  Puget  Sound  and  Skag- 
way  take  that  route.  Seldom  do  the  vessels  plying 
between  southern  ports  and  the  far  beaches  of  Nome 
come  inside.  They  are  deep-sea  craft,  built  for  off 
shore  work.  So  that  one  taking  a  steamer  at  Wrangel 
can  travel  in  two  directions  only,  north  to  Skagway, 
south  to  Puget  Sound. 

The  booking  facilities  at  Wrangel  are  primitive,  to 
say  the  least.  When  Thompson  inquired  about  south 
bound  passage,  he  was  told  to  go  down  and  board  the 
first  steamer  at  the  pierhead,  and  that  it  would  leave 
at  eleven  that  night.  So  he  took  all  his  meager  belong 
ings,  which  he  could  easily  carry  in  a  blanket  roll  and  a 
sailor's  ditty-bag,  and  went  down  half  an  hour  before 
sailing  time.  There  seemed  no  one  to  bar  his  passage, 


156  BURNED    BRIDGES 

and  he  passed  up  the  gangplank  aboard  a  two-funnelled, 
clean-decked  steamer,  and  made  his  way  to  a  smoking 
room  aft. 

There  were  a  few  men  lounging  about,  men  of  the 
type  he  was  accustomed  to  seeing  in  Wrangel,  miners, 
prospectors  and  the  like,  clad  in  mackinaws  and  heavy 
laced  boots.  Thompson,  habitually  diffident,  asked  no 
questions,  struck  up  no  conversations  after  the  free  and 
easy  manner  of  the  North.  He  laid  down  his  bag  and 
roll,  sat  awhile  listening  to  the  shift  of  feet  and  the 
clatter  of  cargo  winches  on  deck  and  pierhead.  Then, 
growing  drowsy,  he  stretched  himself  on  a  cushioned 
seat  with  his  bag  for  a  pillow  and  fell  asleep. 

He  woke  with  an  odd  sensation  of  his  bed  dropping 
out  from  under  him.  Coming  out  of  a  sound  slum 
ber  he  was  at  first  a  trifle  bewildered,  but  instinctively 
he  grasped  a  stanchion  to  keep  himself  from  sliding 
across  the  floor  as  the  vessel  took  another  deep  roll. 
The  smoking  room  was  deserted.  He  gained  his  feet 
and  peered  out  of  a  window.  All  about  him  ran  the 
uneasy  heave  of  the  sea.  Try  as  he  would  his  eyes 
could  pick  up  no  dim  shore  line.  And  it  was  not  par 
ticularly  dark,  only  a  dusky  gloom  spotted  with  white 
patches  where  a  comber  reared  up  and  broke  in  foam. 
He  wondered  at  the  ship's  position.  It  did  not  conform 
to  what  he  had  been  told  of  the  Inside  Passage. 

And  while  he  was  wondering  a  ship's  officer  in  uniform 
walked  through  the  saloon.  He  cast  a  quick  glance  at 
Thompson  and  smiled  slightly. 

"  This  outside  roll  bother  you?  "  he  inquired  pleas 
antly. 


THE    RESTLESS    FOOT  157 

"  Outside?  "  Thompson  grasped  at  the  word's  sig 
nificance.  "  Are  we  going  down  outside?  " 

"  Sure,"  the  man  responded.     "  We  always  do." 

"  I  wonder,"  Thompson  began  to  sense  what  he  had 
done,  "  I  say  —  isn't  this  the  Roanoke  for  Seattle?  " 

The  mate's  smile  deepened.  "  Uh-uh,"  he  grinned. 
"  This  is  the  Simoon,  last  boat  of  the  season  from  out 
side  northern  points.  We  had  to  put  into  Wrangel, 
which  we  rarely  do.  The  Roanoke  berthed  right  across 
the  wharf  from  us.  Got  aboard  us  by  mistake,  did  you?" 

Thompson  nodded. 

"  Well,"  the  officer  continued,  "  sometimes  the  long 
est  way  round  is  the  shortest  way  home.  We  don't 
touch  this  side  the  Golden  Gate.  So  you  may  as  well 
see  the  purser  when  he  gets  up  and  have  him  assign 
you  a  berth.  It's  pretty  near  daylight  now." 

He  nodded  and  went  on.  Thompson,  holding  fast, 
getting  his  first  uncomfortable  experience  of  the  roll 
and  recovery  of  a  ship  in  a  beam  sea,  made  his  way  out 
on  the  after  deck.  Holding  on  the  rail  he  peered  over 
the  troubled  water  that  was  running  in  the  open  mouth 
of  Dixon  Entrance,  beyond  which  lay  the  vast  breadth  of 
the  Pacific,  an  unbroken  stretch  to  the  coast  of  Japan. 

Again  Chance  was  playing  the  deuce  with  his  calcula 
tions.  For  a  few  minutes  he  felt  uncommonly  irritated. 
He  had  not  started  for  San  Francisco.  He  did  not 
want  to  go  to  San  Francisco.  Still  —  what  was  the 
odds?  San  Francisco  was  as  good  as  any  other  town. 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  feeling  his  way  to  a 
coiled  hawser  sat  down  in  the  bight  of  it  to  contend 
with  the  first,  faint  touch  of  seasickness. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  WORLD  IS  SMALL 

FOR  reasons  of  economy  Thompson  put  himself  up  at 
a  cheap  rooming-house  well  out  Market  Street.  His 
window  looked  out  upon  that  thoroughfare  which  is  to 
San  Francisco  what  the  aorta  is  to  the  arterial  system. 
Gazing  down  from  a  height  of  four  stories  he  could  see  , 
a  never-ending  stir,  hear  the  roar  of  vehicular  traffic 
which  swelled  from  a  midnight  murmur  to  a  deep- 
mouthed  roar  in  the  daylight  hours.  And  on  either 
side  the  traffic  lane  there  swept  a  stream  of  people  like 
the  current  of  the  Stikine  River. 

He  was  not  a  stranger  to  cities,  no  rustic  gazing 
open-mouthed  at  throngs  and  tall  buildings.  His  na 
tive  city  of  Toronto  was  a  fair-sized  place  as  American 
and  Canadian  cities  go.  But  it  was  not  a  seaport. 
It  was  insular  rather  than  cosmopolitan;  it  took  its 
character  from  its  locale  rather  than  from  a  population 
gathered  from  the  four  quarters  of  the  globe.  San 
Francisco  —  is  San  Francisco  —  a  melting-pot  of  peo 
ples,  blown  through  with  airs  from  far  countries,  not 
wholly  rid  of  the  aura  of  Drake  and  the  conquistadores 
of  Spain  even  in  these  latter  days  of  commercial  expan 
sion.  And  all  of  San  Francisco's  greatness  and  color 
and  wealth  is  crowded  upon  a  peninsula,  built  upon 


THE    WORLD    IS    SMALL  159 

rolling  hills.  What  the  city  lacks  of  spaciousness  is 
compensated  by  action.  Life  goes  at  a  great  pace. 

It  made  a  profound  impression  on  Thompson,  since 
he  had  reached  the  stage  where  he  was  keenly  suscep 
tible  to  external  impressions  from  any  source  whatever. 
Those  hurrying  multitudes,  that  unending  stir,  the 
kaleidoscopic  shifts  of  this  human  antheap  made  him  at 
first  profoundly  lonely,  immeasurably  insignificant,  just 
as  the  North  had  made  him  feel  when  he  was  new  to  it. 
But  just  as  he  had  shaped  himself  to  that  environment, 
so  he  felt  —  as  he  had  not  at  first  felt  in  the  North  — 
that  in  time,  with  effort,  he  would  become  an  integral 
part  of  this.  Here  the  big  game  was  played.  It  was 
the  antithesis  of  the  North  inasmuch  as  all  this  activity 
had  a  purely  human  source  and  was  therefore  in  some 
measure  akin  to  himself.  The  barriers  to  be  overcome 
and  the  problems  to  be  solved  were  social  and  monetary. 
It  was  less  a  case  of  adapting  himself  by  painful  degrees 
to  a  hostile  primitive  environment  than  a  forthright 
competitive  struggle  to  make  himself  a  master  in  this 
sort  of  environment. 

How  he  should  go  about  it  he  had  no  definite  idea. 
He  would  have  to  be  an  opportunist,  he  foresaw.  He 
had  no  illusions  about  his  funds  in  hand  being  a  prime 
lever  to  success.  That  four  hundred  dollars  would  not 
last  forever,  nor  would  it  be  replenished  by  any  effort 
save  his  own.  It  afforded  him  a  breathing  spell,  a 
chance  to  look  about,  to  discover  where  and  how  he 
should  begin  at  the  task  of  proving  himself  upon  the 
world. 

He  had  no  misgivings  about  making  a  living.     He 


160  BURNED    BRIDGES 

could  always  fall  back  on  common  labor.  But  a  com 
mon  laborer  is  socially  of  little  worth,  financially  of 
still  less  value.  Thompson  had  to  make  money  —  using 
the  phrase  in  its  commonly  accepted  sense.  He  sub 
scribed  to  that  doctrine,  because  he  was  beginning  to 
see  that  in  a  world  where  purchasing  power  is  the  prime 
requisite  a  man  without  money  is  the  slave  of  every 
untoward  circumstance.  Money  loomed  before  Thomp 
son  as  the  key  to  freedom,  decent  surroundings,  a  chance 
to  pursue  knowledge,  to  so  shape  his  life  that  he  could 
lend  a  hand  or  a  dollar  to  the  less  fortunate. 

He  still  had  those  stirrings  of  altruism,  a  ready  sym 
pathy,  an  instinct  to  help.  Only  he  saw  very  clearly 
that  he  could  not  be  of  any  benefit  to  even  a  limited 
circle  of  his  fellow  men  when  at  every  turn  of  his  hand 
economic  pressure  bore  so  hard  upon  him  as  an  indi 
vidual.  He  began  to  see  that  getting  on  in  the  world 
called  for  complete  concentration  of  his  efforts  upon 
his  own  well-being.  A  pauper  cannot  be  a  philanthro 
pist.  One  cannot  take  nothing  from  nothing  and  make 
something.  To  be  of  use  to  others  he  must  first  grasp 
what  he  required  for  himself. 

Once  he  was  settled  and  familiar  enough  with  San 
Francisco  to  get  from  the  Ferry  Building  to  the  Mission 
and  from  the  Marina  to  China  Basin  without  the  use 
of  a  map  he  began  to  cast  about  for  an  opening.  To 
make  an  apprentice  beginning  in  any  of  the  professions 
required  education.  He  had  that,  he  considered.  It 
did  not  occur  to  him  by  what  devious  routes  men  ar 
rived  at  distinction  in  the  professions.  He  thought  of 
studying  for  the  law  until  the  reception  he  got  in  various 


THE    WORLD    IS    SMALL  161 

offices  where  he  went  seeking  for  information  discour 
aged  him  in  that  field.     Law  students  were  a  drug  on 

the  market. 

t 

"  My  dear  young  man,"  one  kindly,  gray-haired  at 
torney  told  him,  "  you'd  be  wasting  your  time.  The  law 
means  a  tremendous  amount  of  intellectual  drudgery, 
and  a  slim  chance  of  any  great  success  unless  you  are 
gifted  with  a  special  aptitude  for  certain  branches  of 
it.  All  the  great  opportunities  for  a  young  man  now 
adays  lie  in  business  and  salesmanship." 

Business  and  salesmanship  being  two  things  of  which 
Thompson  knew  himself  to  be  profoundly  ignorant,  he 
made  little  headway.  A  successful  business  operation, 
so  far  as  he  could  observe,  called  for  capital  which  he 
did  not  possess.  Salesmanship,  when  he  delved  into  the 
method  of  getting  his  foot  on  that  rung  of  the  ladder, 
required  special  training,  knowledge  of  a  technical  sort. 
That  is,  really  successful  salesmanship.  The  other  kind 
consisted  of  selling  goods  over  a  counter  for  ten  dollars 
per  —  with  an  excellent  chance  of  continuing  in  that 
unenviable  situation  until  old  age  overtook  him.  This 
was  an  age  of  specialists  —  and  he  had  no  specialty. 
Moreover,  every  avenue  that  he  investigated  seemed  to 
be  jammed  full  of  young  men  clamoring  for  a  chance. 
The  skilled  trades  had  their  unions,  their  fixed  hours 
of  labor,  fixed  rates  of  pay.  The  big  men,  the  indus 
trial  managers,  the  men  who  stood  out  in  the  profes 
sions,  they  had  their  own  orbit  into  which  he  could  not 
come  until  he  had  made  good.  There  were  the  two 
forces,  the  top  and  the  bottom  of  the  workaday  world. 
And  he  was  in  between,  like  a  fish  out  of  water. 


162  BURNED    BRIDGES 

Wherefore  Thompson  continued  looking  about  for  a 
number  of  weeks.  He  looked  for  work,  without  finding 
it  save  in  street  gangs  and  at  labor  that  was  mostly 
done  by  Greeks  and  Italians  fresh  from  Europe.  A 
man  had  to  begin  at  the  bottom,  he  realized,  but  he 
did  not  desire  to  begin  at  the  bottom  of  a  ditch.  He 
did  not  seek  for  such  small  clerical  jobs  as  he  knew 
himself  able  to  fill.  He  did  not  mean  to  sit  on  a  high 
stool  and  ruin  his  eyes  over  interminable  rows  of  figures. 
That  much  at  least  the  North  had  done  for  him  —  fixed 
him  firmly  in  the  resolve  that  if  he  had  to  sweat  for  a 
pittance  it  would  not  be  within  four  walls,  behind  dusty 
windows.  He  could  always  go  back  to  the  woods. 
Sometimes  he  thought  he  would  better  do  that  out  of 
hand,  instead  of  wasting  his  time  and  money  seeking 
in  a  city  for  the  goose  that  was  to  lay  him  golden  eggs. 

When  he  was  not  hard  on  the  trail  of  some  definite 
opening  sheer  loneliness  drove  him  out  on  the  streets. 
His  room  was  a  cheerless  place,  a  shelter  for  him  when 
he  slept  and  nothing  more.  Many  a  time,  lacking  any 
real  objective,  he  covered  miles  of  San  Francisco's 
streets.  He  sought  out  parks,  beaches,  public  build 
ings.  At  night  he  would  drift,  a  silent,  lonely  spirit, 
among  the  crowds  that  ebbed  and  flowed  in  the  down 
town  district  that  was  a  blaze  of  light. 

That  restless  wandering  brought  him  by  chance  one 
evening  along  a  certain  avenue  which  shall  be  nameless, 
because  it  is  no  longer  the  haunt  of  the  soap-boxer. 
This  curious  thoroughfare  lay  upon  the  borderline  be 
tween  the  smart  shopping  district  and  San  Francisco's 
Chinatown.  For  a  matter  of  two  or  three  blocks  the 


THE    WORLD    IS    SMALL  163 

street  was  given  over  to  an  impromptu  form  of  public 
assembly,  a  poor  man's  debating  ground,  an  open  forum 
where  any  citizen  with  a  grievance,  a  theory,  or  even 
merely  the  gift  of  gab  might  air  his  views  and  be  reason 
ably  sure  of  an  audience.  In  the  evening  there  was 
always  a  crowd.  Street  fakirs  plied  their  traffic  under 
sputtering  gas  torches,  dispensing,  along  with  a  ready 
flow  of  glib  chatter,  marvellous  ointments,  cure-alls, 
soap,  suspenders,  cheap  safety  razors,  anything  that 
would  coax  stray  dimes  and  quarters  from  the  crowd. 

But  the  street  fakirs  were  in  the  minority.  The  per 
centage  of  gullible  ones  was  small.  Mostly  it  was  a 
place  of  oratory,  the  haunt  of  propagandists.  Thomp 
son  listened  to  Social  Democrats,  Social  Laborites, 
syndicalists,  radicals,  revolutionaries,  philosophical 
anarchists,  men  with  social  and  economic  theories  of  the 
extremist  type.  But  they  talked  well.  They  had  a 
grasp  of  their  subject.  They  had  on  tap  tremendous 
quantities  of  all  sorts  of  knowledge.  The  very  extent 
of  their  vocabulary  amazed  Thompson.  He  heard  sci 
entific  and  historical  authorities  quoted  and  disputed, 
listened  to  arguments  waged  on  every  sort  of  ground  — 
from  biological  complexities  which  he  could  not  under 
stand  to  agricultural  statistics  which  he  understood 
still  less.  A  lot  of  it  perplexed  and  irritated  him, 
because  the  terminology  was  over  his  head.  And  the 
fact  that  he  could  not  follow  these  men  in  full  intellec 
tual  flight  spurred  him  to  find  the  truth  or  falsity  of 
those  things  for  himself.  He  got  an  inkling  of  the 
economic  problems  that  afflict  society.  He  found 
himself  assenting  offhand  to  the  reasonable  theorem  that 


i64  BURNED    BRIDGES 

a  man  who  produced  wealth  was  entitled  to  what  he 
produced.  He  listened  to  many  a  wordy  debate  in 
which  the  theory  of  evolution  was  opposed  to  the  seven- 
day  creation.  There  was  thus  revived  in  him  some  of 
those  troublesome  perplexities  which  Sam  and  Sophie 
Carr  had  first  aroused. 

In  the  end,  lacking  profitable  employment  and  grow 
ing  dubious  of  obtaining  it  during  the  slack  industrial 
season  which  then  hovered  over  California,  he  turned  to 
the  serried  shelves  of  the  city  library.  Once  started 
along  this  road  he  became  an  habitue*,  spending  in  a 
particular  chair  at  a  certain  table  anywhere  from  three 
to  six  hours  a  day,  deep  in  a  book,  not  to  be  deterred 
therefrom  by  the  usual  series  of  mental  shocks  which 
a  man,  full-fed  all  his  life  on  conventions  and  dogmas 
and  superficial  thinking,  gets  when  he  first  goes  seriously 
and  critically  into  the  fields  of  scientific  conclusions. 

He  was   seated  at  a  reading  table  one  afternoon, 
nursing  his  chin  in  one  hand,  deep  in  a  volume  of  Hux 
ley's  "  Lectures  and  Essays  "  which  was  making  a  pr( 
found  impression  upon  him  through  its  twin  merits  ol 
simple,  concise  language  and  breadth  of  vision.     Thei 
was  in  it  a  rational  explanation  of  certain  elementary 
processes  which  to  Thompson  had  never  been  account* 
for  save  by  means  of  the  supernatural,  the  mysterious, 
the    inexplicable.     Huxley    was    merely    sharpening 
function  of  his  mind  which  had  been  dormant  until  h< 
ran  amuck  among  the  books.     He  began  to  perceive 
order  in  the  universe  and  all  that  it  contained,  thai 
natural  phenomena  could  be  interpreted  by  a  studi 
of    nature,    that    there    was    something   more   than   a 


THE    WORLD    IS    SMALL  165 

name  in  geology.  And  he  was  so  immersed  in  what  he 
read,  in  the  printed  page  and  the  inevitable  speculations 
that  arose  in  his  mind  as  he  conned  it,  that  he  was  only 
subconsciously  aware  of  a  woman  passing  his  seat. 

Slowly,  as  a  man  roused  from  deep  sleep  looks  about 
him  for  the  cause  of  dimly  heard  noises,  so  now  Thomp 
son's  eyes  lifted  from  his  book,  and,  with  his  mind  still 
half  upon  the  last  sentence  read,  his  gaze  followed  the 
girl  now  some  forty  feet  distant  in  the  long,  quiet  room. 

There  was  no  valid  reason  why  the  rustle  of  a  woman's 
skirt  in  passing,  the  faint  suggestion  of  some  delicate 
perfume,  should  have  focussed  his  attention.  He  saw 
scores  of  women  and  girls  in  the  library  every  day.  He 
passed  thousands  on  the  streets.  This  one,  now,  upon 
whom  he  gazed  with  a  detached  interest,  was  like  many 
others,  a  girl  of  medium  height,  slender,  well-dressed. 

That  was  all  —  until  she  paused  at  a  desk  to  have 
speech  with  a  library  assistant.  She  turned  then  so 
that  her  face  was  in  profile,  so  that  a  gleam  of  hair 
showed  under  a  wide  leghorn  hat.  And  Thompson 
thought  there  could  scarcely  be  two  women  in  the  world 
with  quite  so  marvellous  a  similarity  of  face  and  figure 
and  coloring,  nor  with  quite  the  same  contour  of  chin 
and  cheek,  nor  the  same  thick  hair,  yellow  like  the 
husks  of  ripe  corn  or  a  willow  leaf  in  the  autumn.  He 
was  just  as  sure  that  by  some  strange  chance  Sophie 
Carr  stood  at  that  desk  as  he  was  sure  of  himself  sitting 
in  an  oak  chair  at  a  reading  table.  And  he  rose  impul 
sively  to  go  to  her. 

She  turned  away  in  the  same  instant  and  walked 
quickly  down  a  passage  between  the  rows  of  shelved 


166  BURNED    BRIDGES 

books.  Thompson  could  not  drive  himself  to  hurry, 
nor  to  call.  He  was  sure  —  yet  not  too  sure.  He 
hated  to  make  himself  appear  ridiculous.  Nor  was  he 
overconfident  that  if  it  were  indeed  Sophie  Carr  she 
would  be  either  pleased  or  willing  to  renew  their  old 
intimacy.  And  so,  lagging  faint-heartedly,  he  lost  her 
in  the  maze  of  books. 

But  he  did  not  quite  give  up.  He  was  on  the  second 
floor.  The  windows  on  a  certain  side  overlooked  the 
main  entrance.  He  surmised  that  she  would  be  leaving. 
So  he  crossed  to  a  window  that  gave  on  the  library 
entrance  and  waited  for  an  eternity  it  seemed,  but  in 
reality  a  scant  five  minutes,  before  he  caught  sight  of  a 
mauve  suit  on  the  broad  steps.  Looking  from  above 
he  could  be  less  sure  than  when  she  stood  at  the  desk. 
But  the  girl  halted  at  the  foot  of  the  steps  and  stand 
ing  by  a  red  roadster  turned  to  look  up  at  the  library 
building.  The  sun  fell  full  upon  her  upturned  face. 
The  distance  was  one  easily  to  be  spanned  by  eyes  as 
keen  as  his.  Thompson  was  no  longer  uncertain.  He 
was  suddenly,  acutely  unhappy.  The  old  ghosts  which 
he  had  thought  well  laid  were  walking,  rattling  their  dry 
bones  forlornly  in  his  ears. 

Sophie  got  into  the  machine.  The  red  roadster  slid 
off  with  gears  singing  their  metallic  song  as  she  shifted 
through  to  high.  Thompson  watched  it  turn  a  corner, 
and  went  back  to  his  table  with  a  mind  past  all  pos 
sibility  of  concentrating  upon  anything  between  the 
covers  of  a  book.  He  put  the  volume  back  on  its  shelf 
at  last  and  went  out  to  walk  the  streets  in  aimless,  rest 
less  fashion,  full  of  vivid,  painful  memories,  troubled  by 


THE    WORLD    IS    SMALL  167 

a  sudden  flaring  up  of  emotions  which  had  lain  so  long 
dormant  he  had  supposed  them  dead. 

Here  in  San  Francisco  he  had  not  expected  to  behold 
Sophie  in  the  enjoyment  of  her  good  fortune.  Yet 
there  was  no  reason  why  she  should  not  be  here. 
Thompson  damned  under  his  breath  the  blind  chance 
which  had  set  him  aboard  the  wrong  steamer  at 
Wrangel. 

But,  he  said  to  himself  after  a  time,  what  did  it 
matter?  In  a  city  of  half  a  million  they  were  as  far 
apart  as  if  he  were  still  at  Lone  Moose  and  she  God 
only  knew  where.  That  powerful  roadster,  the  sort  of 
clothes  she  wore,  the  general  air  of  well-being  which  he 
had  begun  to  recognize  as  a  characteristic  of  people 
whose  social  and  financial  position  is  impregnable  — 
these  things  served  to  intensify  the  gulf  between  them 
which  their  radical  differences  of  outlook  had  originally 
opened.  No,  Sophie  Carr's  presence  in  San  Francisco 
could  not  possibly  make  any  difference  to  him.  He 
repeated  this  emphatically  —  with  rather  more  empha 
sis  than  seemed  necessary. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

A  MEETING  BY  THE  WAT 

BUT  he  found  it  did  make  a  difference,  a  profoundly 
disturbing  difference.  He  had  grown  insulated  against 
the  memory  of  Sophie  Carr  tugging  at  his  heartstrings 
as  the  magnetic  north  pulls  on  the  compass  needle.  He 
had  grown  free  of  both  thought  and  hope  of  her.  There 
had  been  too  many  other  vital  things  pressing  upon  him 
these  months  of  adventure  in  toil,  too  many  undeniable, 
everyday  factors  of  living  present  at  every  turn,  hourly 
insistent  upon  being  coped  with,  for  him  to  nurse  old 
sad  dreams  and  longings.  So  he  had  come  at  last  to 
think  of  that  passionate  yearning  as  a  disease  which  had 
run  its  course. 

Now,  to  his  dismay,  it  recurred  in  all  its  old  viru 
lence,  at  a  mere  glimpse  of  Sophie.  The  floodgates  of 
memory  loosed  bitter  waters  upon  him,  to  make  his 
heart  heavy  and  spoil  his  days  of  passive  content.  It 
angered  him  to  be  so  hopelessly  troubled.  But  he  could 
not  gainsay  the  fact. 

It  made  San  Francisco  a  dreary  waste.  Try  as  he 
would  he  could  not  keep  Sophie  Carr  from  being  the 
sun  around  which  the  lesser  nebula?  of  his  thought  con 
tinually  revolved.  He  could  no  more  help  a  wistful 
lookout  for  her  upon  San  Francisco's  streets  than 


A    MEETING    BY    THE    WAY  169 

could  help  breathing.  Upon  the  rolling  phalanxes  of 
motor  cars  his  gaze  would  turn  with  watchful  expecta 
tion,  and  he  took  to  scanning  the  faces  of  the  passing 
thousands,  a  lonely,  shy  man  with  a  queer  glow  in  his 
eyes.  That,  of  course,  was  only  in  moments  of  forget- 
fulness.  Then  he  would  pull  himself  together  with  a 
resentful  irritation  and  tax  himself  with  being  a  weak 
fool  and  stalk  along  about  his  business. 

But  his  business  had  lost  its  savor,  just  as  his  soul 
had  lost  its  slowly-won  serenity.  His  business  had  no 
importance  to  any  save  himself.  It  had  been  merely 
to  winter  decently  and  economically  with  an  eye  cocked 
for  such  opportunities  of  self-betterment  as  came  his 
way,  and  failing  material  opportunity  in  this  Bagdad 
of  the  Pacific  coast  to  make  the  most  of  his  enforced 
idleness. 

And  now  the  magic  of  the  colorful  city  had  departed 
along  with  the  magic  of  the  books.  The  downtown 
streets  ceased  to  be  a  wonderful  human  panorama  which 
he  loved  to  watch.  The  hushed  reading  room  where  he 
had  passed  so  many  contented  hours  was  haunted  by  a 
presence  that  obscured  the  printed  page.  He  would 
find  himself  staring  absently  at  an  open  book,  the 
words  blurred  and  overlaid  with  mental  pictures  of 
Lone  Moose,  of  Sophie  sitting  on  the  creek  bank,  of 
his  unfinished  church,  forlorn  and  gaunt  in  the  winter 
snows  and  the  summer  silences,  of  Tommy  Ashe  trudg 
ing  across  the  meadow,  gun  in  hand,  of  old  Sam  Carr 
in  his  moosehide  chair,  of  the  Indians,  the  forest,  of  all 
that  goes  to  make  the  northern  wilderness  —  and  of 
himself  moving  through  it  all,  an  unheroic  figure,  a 


170  BURNED    BRIDGES 

man  who  had  failed  in  his  worfc,  in  his  love,  in  every 
thing. 

That,  chiefly,  was  what  stirred  him  anew  to  action, 
a  suddenly  acute  sense  of  failure,  of  a  consciousness 
that  he  was  drifting  instead  of  doing.  He  found  him 
self  jarred  out  of  the  even  tenor  of  his  way.  San  Fran 
cisco  filled  him  with  dissatisfaction  now,  knowing  that 
she  was  there.  If  the  mere  knowledge  that  Sophie  Carr 
dwelt  somewhere  within  the  city  boundaries  had  power 
to  make  a  mooning  idiot  of  him,  he  said  to  himself 
testily,  then  he  had  better  get  out,  go  somewhere,  get 
down  to  work,  be  at  his  fixed  purpose  of  proving  his 
mettle  upon  an  obdurate  world,  and  get  her  out  of  his 
mind  in  the  process.  He  couldn't  tune  his  whole  exist 
ence  to  a  sentimental  craving  for  any  woman  —  even 
such  a  woman  as  Sophie.  He  would,  in  the  moment  of 
such  emotional  genuflexions,  have  dissented  with  cynical 
bitterness  from  the  poetic  dictum  that  it  was  better  to 
have  loved  and  lost  than  never  to  have  loved  at  all. 

Spurred  by  this  mood  he  acted  instinctively  rather 
than  with  reasoned  purpose.  He  gave  up  his  room, 
packed  his  clothes  and  betook  himself  upon  a  work- 
seeking  pilgrimage  among  the  small,  interior  towns. 

He  left  San  Francisco  in  March.  By  May  he  had 
circulated  all  through  the  lower  San  Joaquin  and  far 
ther  abroad  to  the  San  Juan,  and  had  turned  his  face 
again  toward  San  Francisco  Bay.  At  various  jobs 
he  had  tried  his  hand,  making  a  living  such  as  it  was, 
acquiring  in  addition  thereto  a  store  of  first-ham 
experience  in  the  social  and  monetary  values  of  itinei 
ant  labor.  He  conceded  that  such  experience  might 


A    MEETING    BY    THE    WAY  171 

somehow  be  of  use  to  a  man.  But  he  had  had  enough 
of  it.  He  had  a  feeling  of  having  tested  California 
for  his  purposes  —  and  of  finding  it  wanting. 

He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  double  on  his  tracks,  to 
go  north  again,  specifically  to  British  Columbia,  partly 
because  Tommy  was  there,  chiefly  because  Vancouver 
was  a  growing  place  on  the  edge  of  a  vast,  newly  opened 
interior.  He  knew  that  if  no  greater  thing  offered, 
from  that  center  there  was  always  the  avenue  of  the 
woods.  He  could  qualify  in  that  line.  And  in  the 
woods  even  a  common  axeman  exacted  and  received  more 
democratic  treatment  than  in  this  older  region  where 
industry  ran  in  fixed  channels,  where  class  lines  were 
more  rigidly  drawn,  where  common  labor  was  cheap  and 
unprivileged. 

He  hadn't  been  getting  on  in  those  three  months. 
He  had  less  money  than  when  he  started  out  —  about 
enough  now  to  get  him  up  North  and  leave  a  hundred 
dollars  or  so  for  emergencies.  No,  decidedly  he  wasn't 
getting  on  —  he  was  going  down,  he  told  himself.  It 
dismayed  him  a  little.  It  wasn't  enough  to  be  big  and 
strong  and  willing.  A  mule  could  be  that.  The  race 
was  not  to  the  swift  or  the  strong.  Not  in  modern 
industry,  with  its  bewildering  complexities.  No,  it  fell 
to  the  trained,  the  specialist  in  knowledge,  the  man  who 
could  do  something  more  efficiently,  with  greater  pre 
cision  than  his  fellows. 

He  could  not  do  that  —  not  yet.  And  so  there  was 
nothing  in  California  for  him,  he  decided.  A  man 
could  no  longer  go  West  and  grow  up  with  the  country 
—  but  he  could  go  North. 


172  BURNED    BRIDGES 

Thompson  was  sitting  on  the  border  of  a  road  that 
runs  between  San  Mateo  and  the  city  when  he  definitely 
committed  himself  to  doubling  on  his  tracks,  to  coun 
teracting  the  trick  of  fate  which  had  sent  him  to  a 
place  where  he  did  not  wish  to  go.  He  was  looking 
between  the  trees  and  out  over  an  undulating  valley 
floored  with  emerald  fields,  studded  with  oaks,  backed 
by  the  bare  Hamiltons  to  the  east,  and  westward 
by  the  redwood-clad  ruggedness  of  the  Santa  Cruz 
range.  And  he  was  not  seeing  this  loveliness  of  land 
scape  at  all.  He  was  looking  far  beyond  and  his  eyes 
were  full  of  miles  upon  miles  of  untrodden  forest,  the 
sanctuary  of  silence  and  furtive  living  things,  of  moun 
tains  that  lifted  snowy  spires  to  heaven  high  over  the 
glaciers  that  scarred  their  sides.  And  the  smells  that 
for  a  moment  rose  strongly  in  his  nostrils  were  not  the 
smells  of  palm  and  gum  and  poppy-dotted  fields,  but 
odors  of  pine  and  spruce  and  the  smell  of  birchwood 
burning  in  campfires.  He  came  out  of  that  queer  pr< 
jection  of  mind  into  great  distance  with  a  slight  shake 
of  his  head  and  a  feeling  of  wonder.  It  had  been  verj 
vivid.  And  it  dawned  upon  him  that  for  a  minute  h« 
had  grown  sentimentally  lonely  for  that  grim,  uncoi 
quered  region  where  he  had  first  learned  the  pangs  ol 
loneliness,  where  he  had  suffered  in  body  and  spirit 
until  he  had  learned  a  lesson  he  would  never  for; 
while  he  lived. 

The  road  itself,  abutting  upon  stately  homes  am 
modest  bungalows  behind  a  leafy  screen  of  Australiai 
gums,  ran  straight  as  an  arrow  down  the  peninsuh 
toward  the  city  and  the  bay,  a  broad,  smoothly  as 


A    MEETING    BY    THE    WAY  173 

phalted  highway  upon  that  road  where  the  feet  of  the 
Franciscan  priests  had  traced  the  Camino  Real.  And 
down  this  highway  both  north  and  south  there  passed 
many  motor  cars  swiftly  and  silently  or  with  less  speed 
and  more  noise,  according  to  their  quality  and  each 
driver's  mood. 

Thompson  rested,  watching  them  from  the  grassy 
level  beneath  a  tree.  He  rather  regretted  now  the 
impulse  which  had  made  him  ship  his  bag  and  blanket 
roll  from  the  last  town,  and  undertake  this  solitary 
hike.  He  had  merely  humored  a  whim  to  walk  through 
orchards  and  green  fields  in  a  leisurely  fashion,  to  be  a 
careless  trudger  for  a  day.  True,  he  was  saving  car 
fare,  but  he  observed  dryly  that  he  was  expending  many 
dollars'  worth  of  energy  —  to  say  nothing  of  shoe 
leather.  The  pleasure  of  walking,  paradoxically,  was 
best  achieved  by  sitting  still  in  the  shade.  A  midday 
sun  was  softening  the  asphalt  with  its  fierce  blaze.  He 
looked  idly  at  passing  machines  and  wondered  what  the 
occupants  thereof  would  say  if  he  halted  one  and  de 
manded  a  ride.  He  smiled. 

He  stared  after  a  passing  sedan  driven  by  a  uni 
formed  chauffeur,  one  half  the  rear  seat  occupied  by  a 
fat,  complacent  woman,  the  other  half  of  the  ten-inch 
upholstery  given  over  to  an  equally  fat  and  complacent 
bulldog.  And  while  he  reflected  in  some  little  amuse 
ment  at  the  circumstance  which  gave  a  pampered  animal 
the  seat  of  honor  in  a  six-thousand-dollar  car  and  sent 
an  able-bodied  young  man  trudging  down  the  road  in 
the  heat  and  the  dust,  another  machine  came  humming 
up  from  the  south. 


174  BURNED    BRIDGES 

It  was  a  red  car,  crowding  the  state  limit  for  speed, 
and  it  swept  down  on  Thompson  with  a  subdued  purr 
like  a  great  cat  before  a  fire.  When  it  was  almost 
abreast  of  him  there  burst  from  it  a  crack  like  the 
report  of  a  shotgun.  There  was  just  a  perceptible 
wabble  of  the  machine.  Its  hot  pace  slackened 
abruptly.  It  rolled  past  and  came  to  a  stop  beside  the 
road  fifty  yards  along  —  a  massive  brute  of  a  red  road 
ster  driven  by  a  slim  girl  in  a  pongee  suit,  a  girl  whose 
bare  head  was  bound  about  with  heavy  braids  of  corn- 
yellow  hair. 

Thompson  half  rose  —  then  sank  back  in  momentary 
indecision.  Perhaps  it  were  wiser  to  let  sleeping  dogs 
lie.  Then  he  smiled  at  the  incongruity  of  that  proverb 
applied  to  Sophie  Can*. 

He  sat  watching  the  machine  for  a  minute.  The 
halting  of  its  burst  of  speed  was  no  mystery  to  Thomp 
son.  Miss  Carr  proceeded  with  calm  deliberation. 
She  first  resurrected  a  Panama  hat  from  somewhere  in 
the  seat  beside  her  and  pinned  it  atop  of  her  head. 
Then  she  got  out,  walked  around  to  the  front  wheel, 
poked  it  tentatively  once  or  twice,  and  proceeded  about 
the  business  of  getting  out  a  jack  and  a  toolkit. 

By  the  time  Thompson  decided  that  in  common 
decency  he  should  offer  to  lend  a  hand  and  thus  was 
moved  to  rise  and  approach  the  disabled  car  she  had 
the  jack  under  the  front  axle  and  was  applying  a  brace 
wrench  to  the  rim  bolts.  But  the  rim  bolts  that  hold 
on  a  five-inch  tire  are  not  designed  to  unscrew  too 
easily.  Sophie  had  started  one  with  an  earnest  tug 
and  was  twisting  stoutly  at  the  second  when  he  reached 


A    MEETING    BY    THE    WAY  175 

her.  He  knew  by  the  impersonal  glance  she  gave  him 
that  he  was  to  her  merely  a  casual  stranger. 

"May  I  help  you?  "  he  said  politely.  "A  big  tire 
is  rather  hard  to  handle." 

Sophie  bestowed  another  level  look  upon  him  as  she 
straightened  up  from  her  task.  A  puzzled  expression 
showed  briefly  in  her  gray  eyes.  But  she  handed  him 
the  wrench  without  parley. 

"  Thanks,  if  you  will,"  she  said.  "  These  rim  bolts 
are  fearfully  stiff.  I  daresay  I  could  manage  it  though. 
I've  done  it  on  a  lighter  car.  But  it's  a  man's  job, 
really." 

Thompson  laid  off  his  coat  and  set  to  work  silently, 
withholding  speech  for  a  double  reason.  He  could  not 
trust  his  tongue,  and  he  was  not  given  to  inconsequen 
tial  chatter.  If  she  did  not  recognize  him  —  well,  there 
was  no  good  reason  why  she  should  remember,  if  she 
chose  not  to  remember.  He  could  lend  a  hand  and  go 
his  way,  just  as  he  would  have  been  moved  to  lend  a 
hand  to  any  one  in  like  difficulty. 

He  twisted  out  the  bolt-heads,  turned  the  lugs,  pulled 
the  rim  clear  of  the  wheel.  He  stood  up  to  get  the 
spare  tire  from  its  place  behind.  And  he  caught 
Sophie  staring  at  him,  astonishment,  surprise,  inquiry 
all  blended  in  one  frank  stare.  But  still  she  did  not 
speak. 

He  trundled  the  blow-out  casing  to  the  rear,  took 
off  the  one  ready  inflated,  and  speedily  had  it  fast  in 
its  appointed  position  on  the  wheel. 

And  still  Sophie  Carr  did  not  speak.  She  leaned 
against  the  car  body.  He  felt  her  eyes  upon  him,  ques- 


176  BURNED    BRIDGES 

tioning,  appraising,  critical,  while  he  released  the  jack, 
gathered  up  the  tools,  and  tied  them  up  in  the  roll  on 
the  running  board. 

"  There  you  are,"  he  found  himself  facing  her,  his 
tongue  giving  off  commonplace  statements,  while  his 
heart  thumped  heavily  in  his  breast.  "  Ready  for  the 
road  again." 

"  Do  you  remember  what  Donald  Lachlan  used  to 
say  ?  "  Sophie  answered  irrelevantly.  "  Long  time  I 
see  you  no.  Eh,  Mr.  Thompson?  " 

She  held  out  one  gloved  hand  with  just  the  faintest 
suggestion  of  a  smile  hovering  about  her  mouth. 
Thompson's  work-roughened  fingers  closed  over  her 
small  soft  hand.  He  towered  over  her,  looking  down 
wistfully. 

"  I  didn't  think  you  knew  me,"  he  muttered. 

Sophie  laughed.  The  smile  expanded  roguishly. 
The  old,  quizzical  twinkle  flickered  in  her  eyes. 

"  You  must  think  my  memory  poor,"  she  replied. 
"  You're  not  one  of  the  peas  in  a  pod,  you  know.  I 
knew  you,  and  still  I  wasn't  sure.  It  seemed  scarcely 
possible.  It's  a  long,  long  way  from  the  Santa  Clara 
Valley  to  Lone  Moose." 

"  Yes,"  he  answered  calmly.  "  A  long  way  —  the 
way  I  came." 

"In  a  purely  geographical  sense?" 

Her  voice  was  tinged  with  gentle  raillery. 

"  Perhaps,"  he  answered  noncommittally. 

It  dawned  upon  him  that  for  all  his  gladness  to  see 
her  —  and  he  was  glad  —  he  nursed  a  tiny  flame  of 
resentment.  He  had  come  a  long  way  measured  on  the 


A    MEETING    BY    THE    WAY  177 

map,  and  a  far  greater  distance  measured  in  human 
experience,  in  spiritual  reckoning.  If  the  old  narrow 
faith  had  failed  him  he  felt  that  slowly  and  surely  he 
was  acquiring  a  faith  that  would  not  fail  him,  because 
it  was  based  on  a  common  need  of  mankind.  But  he 
was  still  sure  there  must  be  a  wide  divergence  in  their 
outlook.  He  was  getting  his  worldly  experience,  his 
knowledge  of  material  factors,  of  men's  souls  and  faiths 
and  follies  and  ideals  and  weaknesses  in  a  rude  school 
at  first  hand  —  and  Sophie  had  got  hers  out  of  books 
and  logical  deductions  from  critically  assembled  fact. 
There  was  a  difference  in  the  two  processes.  He  knew, 
because  he  had  tried  both.  And  where  the  world  at 
large  faced  him,  and  must  continue  to  face  him,  like  an 
enemy  position,  something  to  be  stormed,  very  likely 
with  fierce  fighting,  for  Sophie  Carr  it  had  all  been 
made  easy. 

So  he  did  not  follow  up  that  conversational  lead. 
He  was  not  going  to  bare  his  soul  offhand  to  gratify 
any  woman's  curiosity.  It  would  be  very  easy  to  make 
a  blithering  ass  of  himself  again  —  with  her  —  because 
of  her.  Already  he  was  on  his  guard  against  that. 
His  pride  was  alert. 

Sophie  stowed  the  canvas  tool  roll  under  the  seat 
cushion.  She  climbed  to  her  seat  behind  the  steering 
column  and  turned  to  Thompson. 

"  Which  way  are  you  bound?  "  she  asked.  "  I'll  give 
you  a  lift,  and  we  can  talk." 

"  I'm  on  my  way  to  San  Francisco,"  he  said.  "  But 
time  is  no  object  in  my  young  life  right  now,  or  I'd 
take  the  Interurban  instead  of  walking.  It  would  be 


178  BURNED    BRIDGES 

demoralizing  to  me,  I'm  afraid,  to  whiz  down  these 
roads  in  a  machine  like  this." 

Sophie  shoved  the  opposite  door  open. 

"  Get  in,"  she  let  a  flavor  of  reproof  creep  into  her 
tone.  "  Don't  talk  that  sort  of  nonsense." 

Thompson  hesitated.  He  was  suddenly  uncomfort 
able,  conscious  of  his  dusty  clothes  somewhat  the  worse 
for  wear,  his  shoes  from  which  the  pristine  freshness 
had  long  vanished,  the  day-old  stubble  on  his  chin. 
There  was  a  depressing  contrast  between  his  outward 
condition  and  that  of  the  smartly  dressed  girl  whose 
gray  eyes  were  resting  curiously  on  him  now. 

"  Do  you  make  a  practice  of  picking  up  tramps 
along  the  road?  "  he  parried  with  an  effort  at  lightness. 
He  wanted  to  refuse  outright,  yet  could  not  utter  the 
words.  "  I'm  not  very  presentable." 

"  Get  in.  Don't  be  silly,"  she  said  impatiently. 
"  You  don't  think  I've  become  a  snob  just  because 
chance  has  pitchforked  me  into  the  ranks  of  the  idle 
rich,  do  you?  " 

Thompson  laughed  awkwardly.  There  was  real  feel 
ing  in  her  tone,  as  if  she  had  read  correctly  his  hesita 
tion  and  resented  it.  After  all,  why  not?  It  would 
merely  be  an  incident  to  Sophie  Carr,  and  it  would 
save  him  some  hot  and  dusty  miles.  He  got  in. 

"  I'm  quite  curious  to  know  where  you've  been  and 
what  you've  been  doing  for  the  last  year,"  she  said, 
when  the  red  car  was  once  more  rolling  toward  the  city 
at  a  sedate  pace.  "  And  by  the  way,  where  did  you 
learn  to  change  a  tire  so  smartly  ?  " 

"  My  last  job,"  Thompson  told  her  truthfully,  "  was 


A    MEETING    BY    THE    WAY  179 

washing  cars,  greasing  up,  and  changing  tires  in  a 
country  garage  down  in  the  San  Juan."  He  paused 
for  a  moment.  "  Before  that  I  was  chaperon  to  a 
stable  full  of  horses  on  a  Salinas  ranch.  I've  tried 
being  a  carpenter's  helper,  an  assistant  gardener, 
understudy  to  a  suburban  plumber  —  and  other  things 
too  numerous  to  mention  —  in  the  last  three  months. 
I  think  the  most  satisfactory  thing  I've  tackled  was 
the  woods  up  north,  last  fall." 

"  You  must  have  acquired  experience,  at  least,  even 
if  none  of  those  things  proved  an  efficient  method  of 
making  money,"  she  returned  lightly. 

"  A  man  like  me,"  he  remarked,  "  has  first  to  learn 
how  to  make  a  living  before  he  can  set  about  making 
money." 

"  Making  money  is  relative.  Quite  often  it  merely 
means  making  a  living  with  an  extended  horizon,"  she 
observed.  "  I  know  a  man  with  a  ten-thousand-dollar 
salary  who  finds  it  a  living,  no  more." 

"  Poor  devil,"  he  drawled  sardonically.  "  When  I 
get  into  the  ten-thousand-a-year  class  I  rather  think 
it  will  afford  me  a  few  trifles  beyond  bare  subsistence." 

She  smiled. 

"  Have  you  set  that  for  a  mark  to  shoot  at?  " 

"  I  haven't  set  any  limit,"  he  replied.  "  I  haven't 
got  my  sights  adjusted  yet." 

"  I  can  scarcely  assure  myself  that  you  are  really 
you,"  she  said  after  a  momentary  silence.  "  I  can't 
seem  to  disassociate  you  with  Lone  Moose  and  a  blun 
dering  optimism,  a  mystical  faith  that  the  Lord  would 
make  things  come  out  right  if  you  only  leaned  on  Him 


i8o 


BURNED    BRIDGES 


hard  enough.  Now  your  talk  is  flavored  with  both 
egotism  and  the  bitterness  of  the  cynic." 

"  How  should  a  man  talk?  "  he  demanded.  "  Like  a 
worm  if  he  chance  to  be  trodden  on  a  few  times?  Does 
a  man  necessarily  become  cynical  when  he  realizes  that 
plugging  from  the  bottom  up  is  no  child's  play?  As 
for  egotism  —  Heaven  knows  you  knocked  that  out  of 
me  pretty  effectually  when  you  left  Lone  Moose.  You 
made  me  feel  like  a  whipped  puppy  for  months.  I 
chucked  myself  out  of  the  church  because  of  that  — 
that  abased,  disheartened  feeling.  For  a  year  and  a 
half  I've  been  learning  and  discovering  that  life  isn't 
a  parlor  game.  Do  you  remember  that  letter  you  left 
with  Cloudy  Moon  for  me?  I  need  only  to  recall  a 
phrase  here  and  there  in  that  as  a  cure  for  incipient 
egotism.  What  do  you  think  I  should  have  become  ?  " 
he  flung  at  her,  unconscious  of  the  passion  in  his  voice. 
"  A  poor  thing  glad  of  a  ride  in  your  car?  Or  a  con 
firmed  optimist  in  overalls?  " 

Sophie  gave  him  a  queer  sidelong  glance. 

"  Can't  you  let  the  dead  past  bury  its  dead  ?  "  she 
asked  quietly. 

Thompson  kept  his  eyes  on  the  smooth,  green-bor 
dered  road  for  a  minute.  The  quick  wave  of  feeling 
passed.  He  stifled  it  —  indeed,  felt  ashamed  for  letting 
it  briefly  master  him. 

"  Of  course,"  he  answered  at  last,  and  turned  to  her 
with  a  friendly  quirk  of  his  lips.  "  It  is  buried  pretty 
deep  one  way  and  another,  isn't  it?  And  it  would 
hardly  be  decent  to  exhume  the  remains.  Shall  we 
talk  about  the  weather?  " 


A    MEETING    BY    THE    WAY  181 

"  Don't  be  sarcastic,"  she  reproved  gently.  "  Save 
that  to  cope  with  dad.  He'll  relish  it  coming  from 
you." 

"  I  don't  know,"  Thompson  said  thoughtfully.  "  I 
wouldn't  mind  a  chat  with  your  father.  We  wouldn't 
agree  on  many  things,  by  a  good  way,  although  I've 
discovered  that  some  of  his  philosophy  is  sound  enough. 
But  I've  got  to  make  a  move,  and  I'm  so  situated  that 
I  must  make  it  quickly  or  not  at  all.  I'm  going  to  take 
the  first  north-bound  steamer  out  of  San  Francisco. 
So  I  don't  imagine  Mr.  Carr  will  have  a  chance  at  me 


soon. 

M 


Oh,  yes,  he  will,"  Sophie  asserted  confidently.  "  In 
about  twenty  minutes." 

Thompson  looked  at  her,  startled  a  little  by  this 
bland  assertion. 

"  We'll  be  home  in  about  twenty  minutes,"  she  ex 
plained. 

"But  I'm  —  why  take  the  trouble?"  he  asked 
bluntly.  "  I'm  out  of  your  orbit  entirely.  Or  do  you 
want  to  exhibit  me  as  a  horrible  example?  " 

"  You're  downright  rude,"  she  laughed.  "  Or  you 
would  be  if  you  were  serious.  Do  you  mind  coming  to 
see  dad?  And  I'd  like  to  hear  more  about  your  trip 
across  the  mountains  with  Tommy  Ashe." 

Thompson  pricked  up  his  ears. 

"Oh,  you  know  about  that,  eh?"  he  remarked. 
"  How  — " 

"  Not  as  much  as  I'd  like  to,"  she  interrupted.  "  Will 
you  come?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  agreed.     "  But  give  a  fellow  a  chance. 


182 


BURNED    BRIDGES 


Don't  drag  me  into  your  home  looking  like  this.  I'm 
not  vain,  but  I'd  feel  more  comfortable  in  clean  clothes. 
I  shipped  all  my  things  into  town.  They  should  be  in 
the  express  office  now.  I'll  come  this  afternoon  or  this 
evening,  whichever  you  say.  Drop  me  off  at  the  first 
carline." 

"  I'll  do  better  than  that,"  she  declared.  "  I'll  drive 
you  down-town  myself." 

"  But  it  isn't  necessary,"  he  persisted.  "  I  don't 
want  to  take  up  all  your  time,  and  — " 

"  For  the  rest  of  this  day,"  Sophie  murmured,  "  I 
have  absolutely  nothing  to  do  but  kill  time.  I  get 
restless,  and  being  out  in  the  car  cures  that  feeling. 
Do  you  mind  if  I  chauff  you  a  few  miles  more  or  less? 
Don't  be  ungallant.  I  love  to  drive." 

"  Oh,  well." 

Thompson  mentally  threw  up  his  hands.  In  that 
gracious  mood  Sophie  was  irresistible.  He  sank  back 
in  the  thick,  resilient  upholstery  and  resolved  to  take 
what  the  gods  provided  —  to  dance  as  it  were,  and 
reckon  with  the  piper  when  he  presented  his  bill. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  REPROOF    COURTEOUS    ( ?) 

FOR  the  few  minutes  it  took  the  red  roadster  to  slip 
under  the  green  summits  of  Twin  Peaks  and  by  a  maze 
of  boulevards  debouch  at  length  upon  Valencia  and  so 
into  the  busy  length  of  Market  Street  their  talk  ran 
to  commonplaces.  Thompson  placed  himself  unre 
servedly  in  Sophie's  hands.  He  had  to  reach  an  ex 
press  office  on  lower  Market,  get  his  things,  and  proceed 
thence  to  the  house  where  he  had  roomed  all  winter. 
Since  it  suited  Miss  Carr's  book  to  convey  him  to  the 
first  point,  he  accepted  the  gift  of  her  company  gladly. 
So  in  the  fullness  of  time  they  came  into  the  downtown 
press  of  traffic,  among  which,  he  observed,  Sophie 
steered  her  machine  like  a  veteran. 

At  Third  and  Market  the  traffic  whistle  blocked  them 
with  the  front  wheels  over  the  safety  line  that  guided 
the  flow  of  cross-street  pedestrians,  and  the  point  man, 
crabbed  perhaps  from  a  long  trick  amidst  that  roaring 
maze  of  vehicles,  motioned  autocratically  for  her  to 
back  up. 

Sophie  muttered  impatiently  under  her  breath  and 
went  into  reverse.  Behind  her  the  traffic  was  piling 
up,  each  machine  stealing  every  inch  of  vantage  for  the 
go-ahead  signal,  crowding  up  wheel  to  wheel,  the  nose 


184  BURNED    BRIDGES 

of  one  thrusting  at  the  rear  fender  of  the  other.  On 
one  side  of  Sophie  rose  the  base  of  a  safety  station  for 
street-car  boarders.  Between  her  car  and  the  curb 
a  long-snouted  gray  touring-car  was  edging  in.  And 
as  she  backed  under  the  imperative  command  of  the 
traffic  officer,  one  rear  hub  clinked  against  the  hind 
fender  of  the  other,  jarring  both  cars  a  little,  dinting 
the  gray  one's  fender,  marring  the  glossy  finish. 

A  chauffeur  in  a  peaked  cap  drove  the  gray  machine. 
He  looked  across  at  Sophie,  scowling.  He  was  young 
and  red-faced,  a  pugnacious-looking  individual. 

"  Back  to  the  country,  Jane,  an'  practice  on  the  farm 
wagon,"  he  snarled  out  of  one  corner  of  his  mouth. 
"  Yuh  drive  like  a  hick,  yuh  do." 

"  Talk  civil  to  a  woman,"  Thompson  snapped  back 
at  him,  "  or  keep  your  mouth  shut." 

The  chauffeur  bestowed  upon  him  a  rancorous  glare. 
His  sharp,  ferret  eyes  gleamed.  Then  he  deliberately 
spat  upon  the  impeccably  shining  red  hood  of  Sophie's 
roadster. 

A  scant  arm's  length  separated  him  from  Thomp 
son.  Thompson  bridged  that  gap  with  his  feet  still 
on  the  running-board  of  the  roadster.  He  moved  so 
quickly  that  the  chauffeur  had  no  chance.  He  did  try 
to  slide  out  from  behind  the  wheel  and  his  fist  doublet 
and  drew  back,  but  Thompson's  work-hardened  fingers 
closed  about  his  neck,  and  the  powerful  arms  back  o 
those  clutching  hands  twisted  the  man  out  of  all  position 
to  strike  any  sort  of  blow.  He  yanked  the  chauffeur's 
head  out  over  the  side  of  the  car,  struck  him  one  open- 
handed  slap  that  was  like  an  earnest  cluff  from 


THE  REPROOF  COURTEOUS  (?)   185 

sizable  bear,  lifted  again  and  banged  the  man's  face 
down  on  the  controls  on  his  wheels,  then  pushed  him 
back  into  his  seat,  limp  and  disheveled,  all  the  insolent 
defiance  knocked  out  of  him. 

Thompson  stood  on  the  running  board,  panting  a 
little,  the  blaze  of  a  quick  anger  bright  in  his  blue  eyes, 
and  he  became  aware  of  two  men  in  the  rear  seat  of  the 
gray  car,  gazing  at  him  in  open-mouthed  astonishment. 
One  was  fat  and  long  past  forty,  well  fed,  well  dressed, 
a  prosperous  citizen.  The  other  was  a  slim  youngster 
in  the  early  twenties,  astonishingly  like  his  older  com 
panion  as  to  feature. 

Thompson  looked  at  them,  and  back  at  the  cowed 
driver  who  was  feeling  his  neck  and  face  with  shaky 
fingers.  Just  then  three  things  happened  —  simul 
taneously.  The  traffic  whistle  blew.  The  younger  man 
opened  his  mouth  and  uttered,  "  I  say  — "  Sophie 
plucked  at  Thompson's  arm,  crying  "  Sit  down,  sit 
down." 

Thompson  was  still  fumbling  the  catch  on  the  door 
when  they  swept  over  the  cross  street  and  raced  down 
the  next  block.  He  looked  back.  The  gray  car  was 
hidden  somewhere  in  a  rolling  phalanx  of  other  motors. 
The  traffic  had  split  and  flowed  about  and  past  it, 
stalled  there  doubtless  while  the  red-faced  chauffeur 
wiped  the  blood  out  of  his  eyes  and  wondered  if  a  street 
car  had  struck  him. 

"  Do  you  habitually  reprove  ill-bred  persons  in  that 
vigorous  manner?  " 

He  became  aware  of  Sophie  speaking.  He  looked  at 
her.  So  far  as  he  could  gather  from  her  profile  she 


i86  BURNED    BRIDGES 

was  quite  unperturbed,  making  her  way  among  the 
traffic  that  is  always  like  a  troubled  sea  between  Third 
and  the  Ferry  Building. 

"  No,"  he  replied  diffidently.  "  I  daresay  I'd  be  in 
jail  or  the  hospital  most  of  the  time  if  I  did.  Still, 
that  was  rather  a  rank  case.  I'm  not  sorry  I  bumped 
him.  He'll  be  civil  to  the  next  woman  he  meets." 

What  he  did  not  attempt  to  explain  to  Sophie,  a 
matter  he  scarcely  fathomed  himself,  was  his  precipi 
tancy,  this  going  off  "half-cocked  ",  as  he  put  it.  He 
wasn't  given  to  quick  bursts  of  temper.  It  was  as  if  he 
had  been  holding  himself  in  and  the  self-contained 
pressure  had  grown  acute  when  the  insolent  chauffeur 
presented  himself  as  a  relief  valve.  He  felt  a  little 
ashamed  now. 

Sophie  swung  the  roadster  in  to  the  curb  before  the 
express  office.  Thompson  got  out. 

"Good-by  till  this  evening,  then,"  he  said.  "I'll 
be  there  if  the  police  don't  get  me." 

"  If  they  do,"  she  smiled,  "  telephone  and  dad  will 
come  down  and  bail  you  out.  Good-by,  Mr.  Thomp 
son." 

Ten  minutes  or  so  later  he  emerged  from  the  express 
office  with  a  suitcase,  a  canvas  bag,  and  a  roll  of 
blankets.  He  had  no  false  pride  about  people  seeing 
him  with  his  worldly  goods  upon  his  back,  so  to  speak, 
wherefore  he  crossed  the  street  and  trudged  half  a 
block  to  a  corner  where  he  could  catch  a  car  that  would 
carry  him  out  Market  to  his  old  rooming  place. 

And,  since  this  was  a  day  in  which  •  events  trod 
upon  each  other's  heels  to  reach  him,  it  befell  that  as  he 


THE  REPROOF  COURTEOUS(P)    187 

loitered  on  the  curb  a  gray  touring  car  rolled  up, 
stopped,  and  a  short,  stout  man  emerging  therefrom 
disappeared  hurriedly  within  the  portals  of  an  office 
building.  Thompson's  gaze  rested  speculatively  on 
the  machine.  Gray  cars  were  common  enough.  But 
without  a  doubt  this  was  the  same  vehicle.  The  chauf 
feur  in  the  peaked  cap  was  not  among  those  present  — 
but  Thompson  could  take  oath  on  the  other  two.  The 
3Toung  man  sat  behind  the  steering  wheel. 

He,  too,  it  presently  transpired,  was  spurred  by 
recognition.  His  roving  eyes  alighted  upon  Thompson 
with  a  reminiscent  gleam.  He  edged  over  in  his  seat. 
Thompson  stood  almost  at  the  front  fender. 

"  I  say,"  the  man  in  the  car  addressed  him  bluntly, 
"  weren't  you  in  a  red  roadster  back  at  Third  and 
Market  about  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes  ago?  " 

"  I  was,"  Thompson  admitted. 

Was  he  to  be  arrested  forthwith  on  a  charge  of 
assault  and  battery?  Policemen  were  plentiful  enough 
in  that  quarter.  All  one  had  to  do  was  crook  his 
finger.  People  could  not  be  expected  to  take  kindly 
to  having  their  chauffeur  mauled  and  disabled  like  that. 
But  Thompson  stood  his  ground  indifferently. 

"  Well,  I  must  say,"  the  young  man  drawled,  pro 
ducing  a  cigarette  case  as  he  spoke,  "  you  squashed 
Pebbles  with  neatness  and  despatch,  and  Pebbles  was 
supposed  to  be  some  scrapper,  too.  What  do  you 
weigh?  " 

Thompson  laughed  outright.  He  had  expected  a 
complaint,  perhaps  prosecution.  He  was  handed  a 
compliment. 


i88  BURNED    BRIDGES 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  smiled.  "  About  a  hundred  and 
eighty-five,  I  think." 

"  You  must  be  pretty  fit  to  handle  a  man  like  that,' 
the  other  observed.  "  The  beggar  had  it  coming,  all 
right.  He  gets  an  overnight  jag,  and  is  surly  all  the 
next  day.  I  was  going  to  apologize  to  the  lady,  but 
you  were  too  quick  for  me.  By  the  way,  are  you  a 
working-man  —  or  a  capitalist  in  disguise?  " 

Before  Thompson  quite  decided  how  he  should  answer 
this  astonishingly  personal  inquiry,  the  young  man's 
companion  strode  out  of  the  lobby  and  entered  the  car. 
At  least  he  had  his  hand  on  the  open  door  and  one  foot 
on  the  running  board.  And  there  he  halted  and  turned 
about  at  something  his  son  said  —  Thompson  assumed 
they  were  father  and  son.  The  likeness  of  feature  was 
too  well-defined  to  permit  of  any  lesser  relation. 

The  older  man  took  his  foot  off  the  running  board, 
and  made  a  deliberate  survey  of  Thompson* 

"  Just  a  second,  Fred,"  he  muttered,  and  took  a  step 
toward  Thompson.  His  eyes  traveled  swiftly  from 
Thompson's  face  down  over  the  suitcase  and  blanket 
roll,  and  came  back  to  that  deliberate  matching  of 
glances. 

"  Do  you  happen  to  be  looking  for  a  position  that 
requires  energy,  ability,  and  a  fair  command  of  the 
English  language?  "  he  demanded  abruptly. 

"  Yes,"  Thompson  answered  briefly. 

He  wondered  what  was  coming.  Were  they  going 
to  offer  him  the  chauffeur's  job?  Did  they  require  a 
bruiser  to  drive  the  gray  car? 

"  Know  anything  about  motors  ?  " 


THE  REPROOF  COURTEOUS(P)    189 

"  Not  the  first  principles,  even."  Thompson  de 
clared  himself  frankly.  He  did  possess  a  little  such 
knowledge,  but  held  a  little  knowledge  to  be  a  dangerous 
admission. 

"  So  much  the  better,"  the  stout  man  commented. 

He  fished  out  a  cardcase,  and  handed  his  card  to 
Thompson. 

"  Call  on  me  at  ten  o'clock  to-morrow  morning,"  he 
said  briskly.  "  I'll  make  you  a  proposition." 

He  did  not  permit  inquiry  into  his  motive  or  anything 
else,  in  fact,  for  he  got  quickly  into  the  car  and  it 
started  off  instantly,  leaving  Mr.  Wesley  Thompson,  a 
little  bewildered  by  the  rapidity  of  these  proceedings, 
staring  at  the  card,  which  read : 

JOHN  P.  HENDERSON,  INC. 
Van  Ness  at  Potter  Groya  Motors 

A  westbound  street  car  bore  down  on  the  corner. 
Thompson  gave  over  reflecting  upon  this  latest  turn 
of  affairs,  gathered  up  his  things,  boarded  the  car,  and 
was  set  off  a  few  minutes  later  near  the  Globe  Rooms. 

At  precisely  8  P.  M.  he  arrived  at  the  address  Sophie 
had  given  him  and  found  it  to  be  an  apartment  house 
covering  half  a  block,  an  enormous  structure  clinging 
upon  the  slope  which  dips  from  Nob  Hill  down  to  the 
heart  of  the  city.  An  elevator  shot  him  silently  aloft 
to  the  fifth  floor.  As  silently  the  elevator  man  indi 
cated  the  location  of  Apartment  509.  The  whole  place 
seemed  pitched  to  that  subdued  note,  as  if  it  were  a 
sanctuary  from  the  clash  and  clamor  without  its  walls. 


ioo  BURNED    BRIDGES 

Thompson  walked  down  a  hushed  corridor  over  a  velvet 
carpet  that  muffled  his  footfalls  and  so  came  at  last  to 
the  proper  door,  where  he  pressed  a  black  button  in 
the  center  of  a  brass  plate.  The  door  opened  almost 
upon  the  instant.  A  maid  eyed  him  interrogatively. 
He  mentioned  his  name. 

"  Oh  yes,"  the  maid  answered.     "  This  way,  please." 

She  relieved  him  of  his  hat  and  led  him  down  a  short, 

dusky  hall  into  a  bright-windowed  room,  in  which,  from 

the  depths  of  two  capacious  leather  chairs,  Sophie  and 

her  father  rose  to  greet  him. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

MR.  HENDERSON'S  PROPOSITION 

LATE  that  evening  Thompson  walked  into  his  room 
at  the  Globe.  He  seated  himself  in  a  rickety  chair 
under  a  fly-specked  incandescent  lamp,  beside  a  bed  that 
was  clean  and  comfortable  if  neither  stylish  nor  massive. 
Over  against  the  opposite  wall  stood  a  dresser  which 
had  suffered  at  the  hands  of  many  lodgers.  Altogether 
it  was  a  cheap  and  cheerless  abode,  a  place  where  a  man 
was  protected  from  the  weather,  where  he  could  lie 
down  and  sleep.  That  was  all. 

Thompson  smiled  sardonically.  With  hands  clasped 
behind  his  head  he  surveyed  the  room  deliberately,  and 
the  survey  failed  to  please  him. 

"  Hell,"  he  exploded  suddenly.  "  I'd  ten  times  rather 
be  out  in  the  woods  with  a  tent  than  have  to  live  like 
this  —  always." 

He  had  spent  a  pleasant  three  hours  in  surroundings 
that  approximated  luxury.  He  had  been  graciously 
received  and  entertained.  However,  it  was  easy  to  be 
gracious  and  entertaining  when  one  had  the  proper 
setting.  A  seven-room  suite  and  two  servants  were 
highly  desirable  from  certain  angles.  Oh,  well  —  what 
the  devil  was  the  difference ! 

Thompson  threw  off  his  clothes  and  got  into  bed. 
But  he  could  not  escape  insistent  thought.  Against  his 


IQ2  BURNED    BRIDGES 

dull  walls,  on  which  the  street  light  cast  queer  patterns 
through  an  open  window,  he  could  see,  through  drowsy 
eyes,  Sophie  half-buried  in  a  great  chair,  listening  atten 
tively  while  he  and  her  father  talked.  Of  course 
they  had  fallen  into  argument,  sometimes  triangular, 
more  often  solely  confined  to  himself  and  Carr. 
Thompson  was  glad  that  the  Grant  Street  orators  had 
driven  him  to  the  city  library  that  winter.  A  man 
needed  all  the  weapons  he  could  command  against  that 
sharp-tongued  old  student  who  precipitated  himself 
joyfully  into  controversy. 

But  of  course  they  did  not  spend  three  hours  dis 
cussing  abstract  theories.  There  was  a  good  deal  of 
the  personal.  Thompson  had  learned  that  they  were 
in  San  Francisco  for  the  winter  only.  Their  home  was 
in  Vancouver.  And  Tommy  Ashe  was  still  in  Van 
couver,  graduated  from  an  automobile  salesman  to  an 
agency  of  his  own,  and  doing  well  in  the  venture. 
Tommy,  Carr  said,  had  the  modern  business  instinct. 
He  did  not  specify  what  that  meant.  Carr  did  not 
dwell  much  on  Tommy.  He  appeared  to  be  much  more 
interested  in  Thompson's  wanderings,  his  experiences, 
the  shifts  he  had  been  put  to,  how  the  world  im 
pressed  him,  viewed  from  the  angle  of  the  ordinary 
man  instead  of  the  ministerial. 

"  If  you  wish  to  achieve  success  as  modern  society 
defines  success,  you've  been  going  at  it  all  wrong,"  he 
remarked  sagely.  "  The  big  rewards  do  not  lie  in 
producing  and  creating,  but  in  handling  the  results  of 
creation  and  production  —  at  least  so  it  seems  to  me. 
Get  hold  of  something  the  public  wants,  Thompson,  and 


MR.    HENDERSON'S    PROPOSITION       193 

sell  it  to  them.  Or  evolve  a  sure  method  of  making- 
big  business  bigger.  They'll  fall  on  your  neck  and 
fill  your  pockets  with  money  if  you  can  do  that.  Prof 
itable  undertakings  —  that's  the  ticket.  Anybody  can 
work  at  a  job." 

That  sounded  rather  cynical  and  Thompson  said  so. 
Carr  laughed  genially.  One  couldn't  escape  obvious 
conclusions,  he  declared.  Perhaps  youth  and  enthu 
siasm  saw  it  differently. 

Thompson,  through  sleep-heavy  eyes,  saw  Carr  hold 
a  glass  of  port  wine,  glowing  like  a  ruby,  up  between 
himself  and  the  light  and  sip  it  slowly.  Carr  was 
partial  to  that  wine.  Wonder  if  the  old  chap  didn't 
get  properly  lit  up  sometimes  ?  He  looked  as  if  —  well, 
as  if  he  enjoyed  easy  living  —  easy  drinking.  There 
was  brandy  and  soda  and  a  bottle  of  Scotch  on  the 
sideboard  too.  —  And  Sophie  was  beautiful.  All  the 
little  feminine  artifices  of  civilization  accentuated  the 
charm  that  had  been  potent  enough  in  the  woods.  Silk 
instead  of  gingham.  Dainty  shoes  instead  of  buckskin 
moccasins.  —  What  an  Aladdin's  lamp  money  was,  any 
way.  Funny  that  they  had  settled  upon  Vancouver 
for  a  home.  Tommy  was  there  too.  Of  course. 
Should  a  fellow  stick  to  his  hunch?  Vancouver  might 
give  birth  to  an  opportunity.  Profitable  undertak 
ings.  —  At  any  rate  he  would  see  her  now  and  then. 
But  would  he  —  working?  Did  he  want  to?  Would 
a  cat  continue  to  stare  at  a  king  if  the  king's  crown 
rather  dazzled  the  cat's  eyes?  Suppose  —  just  sup 
pose  — 

Thompson  sat  up  in  bed  with  a  start.     It  seemed  to 


194  BURNED    BRIDGES 

him  that  he  had  just  lain  down,  that  the  train  of  his 
thought  was  still  racing.  But  it  was  broad  day,  a 
dull  morning,  gloomy  with  that  high  fog  which  in 
spring  often  rides  over  the  city  and  the  bay  till  near 
noon. 

He  stretched  his  arms,  yawning.  All  at  once  he 
recollected  that  he  had  something  to  do,  a  call  to  make 
upon  Mr.  John  P.  Henderson  at  ten  o'clock.  Groya 
Motors  —  he  wondered  what  significance  that  held.  At 
any  rate  he  proposed  to  see. 

It  lacked  just  forty  minutes  of  the  appointed  time. 
Thompson  bounced  out  of  bed.  Within  twenty  min 
utes  he  had  swallowed  a  cup  of  coffee  at  a  near-by 
lunch  counter  and  was  on  his  way  up  Van  Ness. 

The  corner  of  Van  Ness  and  Potter  revealed  a  six- 
story  concrete  building,  its  plate-glass  frontage  upon 
the  sidewalk  displaying  three  or  four  beautifully  fin 
ished  automobiles  upon  a  polished  oak  floor.  The  sign 
across  the  front  bore  the  heraldry  of  the  card.  He 
walked  in,  accosted  the  first  man  he  saw,  and  was 
waved  to  a  flight  of  stairs  reaching  a  mezzanine  floor. 
Gaining  that  he  discovered  in  a  short  corridor  a  door 
bearing  upon  its  name-plate  the  legend : 

Mr.  John  P.  Henderson. 
PRIVATE. 

Thompson  looked  at  his  watch.  It  lacked  but  two 
minutes  of  ten.  He  knocked,  and  a  voice  bade  him 
enter.  He  found  himself  face  to  face  with  the  master 
of  the  gray  car.  Mr.  John  P.  Henderson  looked  more 


MR.    HENDERSON'S    PROPOSITION       195 

imposing  behind  a  mahogany  desk  than  he  did  on  the 
street.  He  had  a  heavy  jaw  and  a  forehead-crinkling 
way  of  looking  at  a  man.  And  —  although  Thompson 
knew  nothing  of  the  fact  and  at  the  moment  would  not 
have  cared  a  whoop  —  John  P.  was  just  about  the  big 
gest  toad  in  San  Francisco's  automobile  puddle.  He 
had  started  in  business  on  little  but  his  nerve  and  made 
himself  a  fortune.  It  was  being  whispered  along  the 
Row  that  John  P.  was  organizing  to  manufacture  cars 
as  well  as  sell  them  —  and  that  was  a  long  look  ahead 
for  the  Pacific  coast. 

He  nodded  to  Thompson,  bade  him  be  seated.  And 
Thompson  sank  into  a  chair,  facing  John  P.  across  the 
desk.  He  wanted  nothing,  expected  nothing.  He  was 
simply  smitten  with  a  human  curiosity  to  know  what 
this  stout,  successful  man  of  affairs  had  to  propose  to 
him. 

"  My  name  is  Thompson,"  he  stated  cheerfully.  "  It 
is  ten  o'clock.  I  have  called  —  as  you  suggested." 

Henderson  smiled. 

"  I  have  been  accused  of  hastiness  in  my  judgment 
of  men,  but  it  is  admitted  that  I  seldom  make  mistakes," 
he  said  complacently.  "  In  this  organization  there  is 
always  a  place  for  able,  aggressive  young  men.  Some 
men  have  ability  without  any  force.  Some  men  are 
aggressive  with  no  ability  whatever.  How  about  you? 
Think  you  could  sell  motor-cars  ?  " 

"  How  the  deuce  do  I  know?  "  Thompson  replied 
frankly.  "  I  have  never  tried.  I'm  handicapped  to 
begin.  I  know  nothing  about  either  cars  or  salesman 
ship." 


10  BURNED    BRIDGES 

"  Would  you  like  to  try?  " 

Thompson  considered  a  minute. 

"  Yes,"  he  declared.  "  I've  tried  several  things. 
I'm  willing  to  try  anything  once.  Only  I  do  not  see 
how  I  can  qualify." 

"  We'll  see  about  that,"  John  P.'s  eyes  kept  boring 
into  him.  "  D'ye  mind  a  personal  question  or  two  ?  " 

Thompson  shook  his  head. 

He  did  not  quite  know  how  it  came  about,  but  he 
passed  under  Henderson's  deft  touch  from  reply  to 
narration,  and  within  twenty  minutes  had  sketched 
briefly  his  whole  career. 

Henderson  sat  tapping  the  blotter  on  his  desk  with 
a  pencil  for  a  silent  minute. 

"  You  have  nothing  to  unlearn,"  he  announced 
abruptly.  "  All  big  commercial  organizations  must  to 
a  certain  extent  train  their  own  men.  A  man  who 
appears  to  possess  fundamental  qualifications  is  worth 
his  training.  I  have  done  it  repeatedly.  I  am  going 
to  proceed  on  the  assumption  that  you  will  become  a 
useful  member  of  my  staff,  ultimately  with  much  profit 
to  yourself.  I  propose  that  you  apply  yourself  dili 
gently  to  mastering  the  sale  of  motor  cars  to  individual 
purchasers.  I  shall  pay  you  twenty-five  dollars  a  week 
to  begin.  That's  a  mechanic's  wages.  If  you  make 
good  on  sales  —  there's  no  limit  to  your  earning  power." 

"  But,  look  here,"  Thompson  made  honest  objection. 
"  I  appreciate  the  opportunity.  At  the  same  time  I 
wonder  if  you  realize  what  a  lot  I  have  to  learn.  I 
don't  know  a  thing  about  cars  beyond  how  to  change  a 
tire  and  fill  grease  cups.  I've  never  driven,  never  even 


MR.    HENDERSON'S    PROPOSITION       197 

started  a  motor.  How  can  I  sell  cars  unless  I  know 
cars  ?  " 

"  You  overestimate  your  handicap,"  John  P.  smiled. 
"  Knowing  how  to  build  and  repair  cars  and  knowing 
how  to  sell  cars  are  two  entirely  different  propositions. 
The  first  requires  a  high  degree  of  technical  knowledge 
and  a  lot  of  practical  experience.  Selling  is  a  matter 
of  personality  —  of  the  power  to  convince.  You  can 
learn  to  drive  in  two  or  three  days.  In  a  month  you 
will  handle  a  machine  as  well  as  the  other  fellow,  and 
you  will  learn  enough  about  the  principal  parts  and 
their  functions  —  not  only  of  our  line,  but  of  other 
standard  machines  —  to  enable  you  to  discuss  and  com 
pare  them  intelligently.  The  rest  will  depend  upon  a 
quality  within  yourself  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  the 
mechanical  end." 

"  You  should  know."  Thompson  could  not  help  a 
shade  of  doubt  in  his  tone.  "  But  I  must  say  I  could 
approach  a  man  with  a  proposition  to  sell  him  an  article 
with  more  confidence  if  I  knew  that  article  inside  and 
out,  top  and  bottom.  If  I  really  knew  a  thing  was 
good,  and  why,  I  could  sell  it,  I  believe." 

"  He  has  the  right  hunch,  Dad." 

Thompson  had  not  heard  young  Henderson  come 
in.  He  saw  him  now  a  step  behind  his  chair,  garbed 
in  overalls  that  bore  every  sign  of  intimate  contact 
with  machinery. 

He  nodded  to  Thompson  and  continued  to  address 
his  father. 

"  It's  true.  Take  two  men  of  equal  selling  force. 
On  the  year's  business  the  one  who  can  drive  mechan- 


io8  BURNED    BRIDGES 

ical  superiority  home  because  he  knows  wherein  it  lies 
will  show  the  biggest  sales,  and  the  most  satisfied  cus 
tomers.  I  believe  six  months'  shop  work  would  just 
about  double  the  efficiency  of  half  our  sales  staff." 

John  P.  gazed  good-naturedly  at  his  son. 

"  I  know,  Fred,"  he  drawled.  "  I've  heard  those 
sentiments  before.  There's  some  truth  in  it,  of  course. 
But  Simons  and  Sam  Eppel  and  Monk  White  are  prod 
ucts  of  my  method.  You  cannot  deny  their  efficiency 
in  sales.  What's  the  idea,  anyway?  " 

Young  Henderson  grinned. 

"  The  fact  is,"  he  said,  "  since  I  listened  in  on  this 
conversation  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  you've 
good  material  here.  I  need  a  helper.  He'll  get  a 
thorough  grounding.  Whenever  you  and  he  decide  that 
he  has  absorbed  sufficient  mechanics  he  can  join  the 
sales  end.  I'd  like  to  train  one  man  for  you,  properly." 

"  Well,"  John  P.  remarked  judicially,  "  I  can't  waste 
the  whole  morning  discussing  methods  of  training  sales 
men  in  the  way  they  should  go.  I've  made  Mr.  Thomp 
son  a  proposition.  What  do  you  say?  " 

He  turned  abruptly  on  Thompson. 

"  Or,"  young  Henderson  cut  in.  "  You  have  the 
counter  proposition  of  an  indefinite  mechanical  grind 
in  my  department  —  which  is  largely  experimental.  If 
you  take  to  it  at  all  I  guarantee  that  in  six  months  you 
will  know  more  about  the  internal  combustion  motor 
and  automobile  design  in  general  than  any  two  sales 
men  on  my  father's  staff.  And  that,"  he  added,  with 
a  boyish  grimace  at  his  father,  "  is  saying  a  lot." 

It  seemed  to  Thompson  that  both  men  regarded  him 


MR.    HENDERSON'S    PROPOSITION       199 

with  a  considerable  expectancy.  It  perplexed  him,  that 
embarrassment  of  opportunity.  He  was  a  little  dazed 
at  the  double  chance.  Here  was  Opportunity  clutching 
him  by  the  coat  collar.  He  had  nothing  but  impulse, 
and  perhaps  a  natural  craving  for  positive  knowledge, 
to  guide  his  choice.  He  wasted  few  seconds,  however, 
in  deciding.  Among  other  things,  he  had  outgrown 
vacillation. 

"  It  is  just  as  I  said,"  he  addressed  Henderson  senior. 
"  I'd  feel  more  competent  to  sell  cars  if  I  knew  them. 
I'd  rather  start  in  the  shop." 

"  All  right,"  Henderson  grunted.  "  You're  the  doc 
tor.  Be  giving  Fred  a  chance  to  prove  one  of  his  the 
ories.  Personally  I  believe  you'd  make  a  go  of  selling 
right  off  the  bat,  and  a  good  salesman  is  wasted  in  the 
mechanical  line.  When  you  feel  that  you've  saturated 
your  system  with  valve  clearances  and  compression  for 
mulas  and  gear  ratios  and  all  the  rest  of  the  shop  dope, 
come  and  see  me.  I'll  give  you  a  try-out  on  the  selling 
end.  For  the  present,  report  to  Fred." 

He  reached  for  some  papers  on  the  desk.  His  man 
ner,  no  less  than  his  words,  ended  the  interview. 
Thompson  rose. 

"  When  can  you  start  in?  "  young  Henderson  in 
quired. 

"  Any  time,"  Thompson  responded  quickly.  He  was, 
in  truth,  a  trifle  eager  to  see  what  made  the  wheels  go 
round  in  that  establishment.  "  I  only  have  to  change 
my  clothes." 

"  Come  after  lunch  then,"  young  Henderson  sug 
gested.  "  Take  the  elevator  to  the  top  floor.  Ask 


200  BURNED    BRIDGES 

one  of  the  men  where  you'll  find  me.  Bring  your  over 
alls  with  you.  We  have  a  dressing  room  and  lockers 
on  each  floor." 

He  nodded  good-by  and  turned  to  his  father. 
Thompson  made  his  exit. 

Half  a  block  away  he  turned  to  look  back  at  the 
house  of  Henderson.  It  was  massive,  imposing,  the 
visible  sign  of  a  prosperous  concern,  the  manifestation 
of  business  on  a  big  scale.  Groya  Motors,  Inc.  It  was 
lettered  in  neat  gilt  across  the  front.  It  stood  forth 
in  four-foot  skeleton  characters  atop  of  the  flat  roof  — 
an  electric  sign  to  burn  like  a  beacon  by  night.  And 
he  was  about  to  become  a  part  of  that  establishment, 
a  humble  beginner,  true,  but  a  beginner  with  uncommon 
prospects.  He  wondered  if  Henderson  senior  was  right, 
if  there  resided  in  him  that  elusive  essence  which  leads 
some  men  to  success  in  dealings  with  other  men.  He 
was  not  sure  about  it  himself.  Still,  the  matter  was 
untried.  Henderson  might  be  right. 

But  it  was  all  a  fluke.  It  seemed  to  him  he  was  get 
ting  an  entirely  disproportionate  reward  for  mauling 
an  insolent  chauffeur.  That  moved  him  to  wonder 
what  became  of  Pebbles.  He  felt  sorry  for  Pebbles. 
The  man  had  probably  lost  his  job  for  good  measure. 
Poor  devil ! 

As  he  walked  his  thought  short-circuited  to  Sophie 
Carr.  Whereat  he  turned  into  a  drugstore  containing 
a  telephone  booth  and  rang  her  up. 

Sophie  herself  answered. 

"  I  guess  my  saying  good-by  last  night  was  a  little 
premature,"  he  told  her.  "  I'm  not  going  north  after 


MR.    HENDERSON'S    PROPOSITION       201 

all.  In  fact,  if  things  go  on  all  right  I  may  be  in  San 
Francisco  indefinitely.  I've  got  a  job." 

"  What  sort  of  a  job?  "  Sophie  inquired. 

He  hadn't  told  her  about  the  ten  o'clock  appointment 
with  Henderson.  Nor  did  he  go  into  that  now. 

"  I've  been  taken  on  in  an  automobile  plant  on  Van 
Ness,"  he  said.  "  A  streak  of  real  luck.  I'm  to  have 
a  chance  to  learn  the  business.  So  I  won't  see  you  in 
Vancouver.  Remember  me  to  Tommy.  I  suppose 
you'll  be  busy  getting  ready  to  go,  so  I'll  wish  you  a 
pleasant  voyage." 

"  Thanks,"  she  answered.  "  Wouldn't  it  be  more 
appropriate  if  you  wished  that  on  us  in  person  before 
we  sail  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  mumbled.     "  I  — " 

A  perfectly  mad  impulse  seized  him. 

"  Sophie,"  he  said  sharply  into  the  receiver. 

"  Yes." 

He  heard  the  quick  intake  of  her  breath  at  the  other 
end,  almost  a  gasp.  And  the  single  word  was  slightly 
uncertain. 

"  What  did  you  mean  by  a  man  standing  on  his  own 
feet?" 

She  did  not  apparently  have  a  ready  answer.  He 
pictured  her,  receiver  in  hand,  and  he  did  not  know  if 
she  were  startled,  or  surprised  —  or  merely  amused. 
That  last  was  intolerable.  And  suddenly  he  felt  like 
a  fool.  Before  that  soft,  sweet  voice  could  lead  him 
into  further  masculine  folly  he  hung  up  and  walked  out 
of  the  booth.  For  the  next  twenty  minutes  his  opinion 
of  John  P.  Henderson's  judgment  of  men  was  rather 


202  BURNED    BRIDGES 

low.  He  did  not  feel  himself  to  be  an  individual  with 
any  force  of  character.  In  homely  language  he  said 
to  himself  that  he,  Wesley  Thompson,  was  nothing  but 
a  pot  of  mush. 

However,  there  in  the  offing  loomed  the  job.  He 
turned  into  the  first  clothing  store  he  found,  and  pur 
chased  one  of  those  all-covering  duck  garments  affected 
by  motor-car  workers.  By  that  time  he  had  recovered 
sufficiently  to  note  that  an  emotional  disturbance  does 
not  always  destroy  a  man's  appetite  for  food. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

A  WIDENING  HOEIZON 

THIS  is  not  a  history  of  the  motor  car  business,  nor 
even  of  the  successive  steps  Wes  Thompson  took  to  win 
competent  knowledge  of  that  Beanstalk  among  modern 
industries.  If  it  were  there  might  be  sound  reasons  for 
recounting  the  details  of  his  tutelage  under  Fred  Hen 
derson.  No  man  ever  won  success  without  knowing 
pretty  well  what  he  was  about.  No  one  is  born  with  a 
workable  fund  of  knowledge.  It  must  be  acquired. 

That,  precisely,  is  what  Thompson  set  out  to  do  in 
the  Groya  shop.  In  which  purpose  he  was  aided, 
abetted,  and  diligently  coached  by  Fred  Henderson. 
The  measure  of  Thompson's  success  in  this  endeavor 
may  be  gauged  by  what  young  Henderson  said  casually 
to  his  father  on  a  day  some  six  months  later. 

"  Thompson  soaks  up  mechanical  theory  and  prac 
tice  as  a  dry  sponge  soaks  up  water." 

"  Wasted  talent,"  John  P.  rumbled.  **  I  suppose 
you'll  have  him  a  wild-eyed  designer  before  you're 
through." 

'  No,"    Henderson    junior    observed    thoughtfully. 

He'll  never  design.  But  he  will  know  design  when  he 
sees  it.  Thompson  is  learning  for  a  definite  purpose  — 
to  sell  cars  —  to  make  money.  Knowing  motor  cars 
thoroughly  is  incidental  to  his  main  object." 


204  BURNED    BRIDGES 

John  P.  cocked  his  ears. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "That  so?  Better  send  that  young 
man  up  to  me,  Fred." 

"  I've  been  expecting  that,"  young  Henderson  re 
plied.  "  He's  ripe.  I  wish  you  hadn't  put  that  sales 
bug  in  his  ear  to  start  with.  He'd  make  just  the  man 
I  need  for  an  understudy  when  we  get  that  Oakland 
plant  going." 

"  Tush,"  Henderson  snorted  inelegantly.  "  Sales 
men  are  born,  not  made  —  the  real  high-grade  ones. 
And  the  factories  are  turning  out  mechanical  experts 
by  the  gross." 

"  I  know  that,"  his  son  grinned.  "  But  I  like 
Thompson.  He  gives  you  the  feeling  that  you  can 
absolutely  rely  on  him." 

"  Send  him  up  to  me,"  John  P.  repeated  —  and  when 
John  P.  issued  a  fiat  like  that,  even  his  son  did  not 
dispute  it. 

And  Thompson  was  duly  sent  up.  He  did  not  go 
back  to  the  shop  on  the  top  floor  where  for  six  months 
he  had  been  an  eager  student,  where  he  had  learned 
something  of  the  labor  of  creation  —  for  Fred  Hen 
derson  was  evolving  a  new  car,  a  model  that  should 
have  embodied  in  it  power  and  looks  and  comfort  at 
the  minimum  of  cost.  And  in  pursuance  of  that  ideal 
he  built  and  discarded,  redesigned  and  rebuilt,  putting 
his  motors  to  the  acid  test  on  the  block  and  his  assem 
bled  chassis  on  the  road.  Indeed,  many  a  wild  ride  he 
and  Thompson  had  taken  together  on  quiet  highways 
outside  of  San  Francisco  during  that  testing  process. 

No,  Thompson  never  went  back  to  that  after  his 


A    WIDENING    HORIZON  205 

interview  with  John  P.  Henderson.  He  was  sorry,  in 
a  way.  He  liked  the  work.  It  was  fascinating  to  put 
shafting  and  gears  and  a  motor  and  a  set  of  insentient 
wheels  together  and  make  the  assembled  whole  a  thing 
of  pulsing  power  that  leaped  under  the  touch  of  a 
finger.  But  —  a  good  salesman  made  thousands  where 
a  good  mechanic  made  hundreds.  And  money  was  the 
indispensable  factor  —  to  such  as  he,  who  had  none. 

Fred  Henderson  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  his 
theory  verified.  Thompson  made  good  from  the  start. 
In  three  months  his  sales  were  second  in  volume  only 
to  Monk  White,  who  was  John  P.'s  one  best  bet  in  the 
selling  line.  Henderson  chuckled  afresh  over  this  veri 
fication  of  his  original  estimate  of  a  man,  and  Fred 
Henderson  smiled  and  said  nothing.  From  either  man's 
standpoint  Wes  Thompson  was  a  credit  to  the  house. 
An  asset,  besides,  of  reckonable  value  in  cold  cash. 

"  New  blood  counts,"  John  P.  rumbled  in  confidence 
to  his  son.  "  Keeps  us  from  going  stale,  Fred." 

When  a  twelvemonth  had  elapsed  from  the  day 
Sophie  Carr's  red  roadster  blew  a  tire  on  the  San  Mateo 
road  and  set  up  that  sequence  of  events  which  had 
landed  him  where  he  was,  Thompson  had  left  his  hall 
bedroom  at  the  Globe  for  quarters  in  a  decent  bachelor 
apartment.  He  had  a  well-stocked  wardrobe,  a  dozen 
shelves  of  miscellaneous  books,  and  three  thousand  dol 
lars  in  the  bank.  Considering  his  prospects  he  should 
have  been  a  fairly  sanguine  and  well-contented  young 
man. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  he  had  become  so,  within  certain 
limits.  A  man  whose  time  is  continuously  and  prof- 


206  BURNED    BRIDGES 

itably  occupied  does  not  brood.  Thompson  had  found 
a  personal  satisfaction  in  living  up  to  John  P.  Hen 
derson's  first  judgment  of  him.  Through  Fred  Hen 
derson  and  through  his  business  activities  he  had  formed 
a  little  group  of  pleasant  acquaintances.  Sophie  Carr 
was  growing  shadowy  —  a  shadow  that  sometimes  laid 
upon  him  certain  regrets,  it  is  true,  but  the  mere  mem 
ory  of  her  no  longer  produced  the  old  overpowering 
reactions,  the  sense  of  sorry  failure,  of  a  dear  treasure 
lost  because  he  lacked  a  man's  full  stature  in  all  but 
physical  bulk. 

It  could  easily  have  happened  that  Thompson  would 
have  embraced  with  enthusiasm  a  future  bounded  by 
San  Francisco,  a  future  in  which  he  would  successfully 
sell  Groya  cars  until  his  amassed  funds  enabled  him 
to  expand  still  further  his  material  success.  If  that 
future  embraced  a  comfortable  home,  if  a  mate  and 
affection  suggested  themselves  as  possibilities  well 
within  his  reach,  the  basis  of  those  tentative  yearnings 
rested  upon  the  need  that  dwells  within  every  normal 
human  being,  and  upon  what  he  saw  happening  now 
and  then  to  other  young  men  —  and  young  women  — 
within  the  immediate  radius  of  his  observation. 

But  upon  this  particular  May  morning  his  mind  was 
questing  far  afield.  The  prime  cause  of  that  mental 
projection  was  a  letter  in  his  hand,  a  letter  from  Tommy 
Ashe.  Thompson  had  a  lively  imagination,  tempered 
by  the  sort  of  worldly  experience  no  moderately  suc 
cessful  man  can  escape.  And  Tommy's  letter  —  the 
latest  in  a  series  of  renewed  correspondence  —  opened 
up  certain  desirable  eventualities.  The  first  page  of 


A    WIDENING    HORIZON  207 

Tommy's  screed  was  devoted  to  personal  matters.    The 
rest  ran  thus : 

Candidly,  old  man,  your  description  of  the  contem 
plated  Henderson  car  makes  a  hit  with  me.  The  line 
I  handle  now  is  a  fair  seller.  But  fair  isn't  good  enough 
for  me.  I  really  need  —  in  addition  —  to  have  a 
smaller  machine,  to  supply  a  pretty  numerous  class  of 
prospects.  I  should  like  to  get  hold  of  just  such  a 
car  as  you  describe.  I  am  feeling  around  for  the 
agency  of  a  small,  good  car.  Send  me  all  the  dope  on 
this  one,  and  when  it  will  be  on  the  market.  There  is 
a  tremendous  market  here  for  something  like  that.  I'd 
prefer  to  take  up  a  line  with  an  established  reputation 
behind  it.  But  the  main  thing  is  to  have  a  car  that 
will  sell  when  you  push  it.  And  this  listens  good. 

Aren't  you  about  due  for  a  vacation?  Why  don't 
you  take  a  run  up  here?  I'd  enjoy  a  chin-fest.  The 
fishing's  good,  too  —  and  we  are  long  on  rather  strik 
ing  scenery.  Do  come  up  for  a  week,  when  you  can 
get  off.  Meantime,  by-by. 

'TOMMY 

Thompson  laid  down  the  letter  and  stared  out  over 
the  roof-tops.  He  couldn't  afford  to  be  a  philanthro 
pist.  A  rather  sweeping  idea  had  flashed  into  his  mind 
as  he  read  that  missive.  His  horizon  was  continually 
expanding.  Money,  beyond  cavil,  was  the  key  to  many 
doors,  a  necessity  if  a  man's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  much 
that  was  desirable.  If  he  could  make  money  selling 
machines  for  Groya  Motors  Inc.,  why  not  for  himself? 
Why  not? 

The  answer  seemed  too  obvious  for  argument.  The 
new  car  which  had  taken  final  form  in  Fred  Henderson's 


2o8  BURNED    BRIDGES 

drafting  room  and  in  the  Groya  shop  was  long  past 
the  experimental  stage.  All  it  required  was  financing 
and  John  P.  Henderson  had  attended  efficiently  to  that. 
There  was  a  plant  rising  swiftly  across  the  bay,  a  mod 
ern  plant  with  railway  service,  big  yards,  and  a  testing 
track,  in  which  six  months  hence  would  begin  an  esti 
mated  annual  production  of  ten  thousand  cars  a  year. 
John  P.  had  remarked  once  to  his  son  that  for  the 
Henderson  family  to  design,  produce,  manufacture  and 
market  successfully  a  car  they  could  be  proud  of  would 
be  the  summit  of  his  ambition.  And  the  new  car  was 
named  the  Summit. 

It  was  a  good  car,  a  quality  car  in  everything  but 
sheer  bulk.  Thompson  knew  that.  He  knew,  too,  that 
people  were  buying  motor  cars  on  performance,  not 
poundage,  now.  He  knew  too  that  he  could  sell  Sum 
mits  —  if  he  could  get  territory  in  which  to  make 
sales. 

He  had  thought  about  this  before.  He  knew  that  in 
the  Groya  files  lay  dealers'  contracts  covering  the  cream 
of  California,  Oregon  and  Washington.  These  dealers 
Tvould  handle  Summits.  There  had  not  seemed  an  open 
ing  wide  enough  to  justify  plans.  But  now  Tommy's 
letter  focussed  his  vision  upon  a  specific  point. 

If  he  could  get  that  Vancouver  territory!  Vancou 
ver  housed  a  hundred  thousand  people.  A  Vancouver 
agency  for  the  Summit,  with  a  live  man  at  the  helm, 
would  run  to  big  figures. 

No,  he  decided,  he  would  not  hastily  grasp  his  foun 
tain  pen  and  say  to  Tommy  Ashe,  "  Jump  in  and  con 
tract  for  territory  and  allotment,  old  boy.  The  Sum- 


A    WIDENING    HORIZON  209 

mit  is  the  goods."     Not  until  he  had  looked  over  the 
ground  himself. 

He  had  two  weeks'  vacation  due  when  it  pleased  him. 
And  it  pleased  him  to  ask  John  P.  as  soon  as  he  reached 
the  office  that  very  morning  if  it  was  convenient  to  the 
firm  to  do  without  him  for  the  ensuing  fortnight. 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE   SHADOW 

THOMPSON  went  to  Vancouver  to  spy  out  the  land. 
He  made  no  confidants.  He  went  about  the  Terminal 
City  with  his  mouth  shut  and  his  ears  and  eyes  open. 
What  he  saw  and  heard  soon  convinced  him  that  like 
the  Israelites  of  old  he  stood  upon  the  border  of  a  land 
which  —  for  his  business  purpose  —  flowed  with  milk 
and  honey.  It  was  easy  to  weave  air  castles.  He  could 
visualize  a  future  for  himself  in  Vancouver  that  loomed 
big  —  if  he  could  but  make  the  proper  arrangements 
at  the  other  end ;  that  is  to  say,  with  Mr.  John  P.  Hen 
derson,  President  of  the  Summit  Motors  Corporation. 
Thompson  had  faith  enough  in  himself  to  believe  he 
could  make  such  an  arrangement,  daring  as  it  seemed 
when  he  got  down  to  actual  figures. 

It  gave  him  a  curious  sense  of  relief  to  find  Tommy 
Ashe  flirting  with  the  Petit  Six  people,  apparently  for 
getful  of  the  Summit  specifications.  Thompson  hadn't 
quite  taken  as  his  gospel  the  sound  business  ethic  that 
you  must  look  out  for  number  one  first,  last  and  always. 
If  Tommy  had  broached  the  subject  personally,  if  he 
had  shown  anxiety  to  acquire  selling  rights  in  the  Sum 
mit,  Thompson  would  have  felt  impelled  by  sheer  loy 
alty  of  friendship  to  help  Tommy  secure  the  agency. 
That  would  have  been  quixotic,  of  course.  Neverthe- 


THE    SHADOW  211 

less,  he  would  have  done  it,  because  not  to  do  it  would 
have  seemed  like  taking  a  mean  advantage.  As  it 
was  — 

For  the  rest  he  warmed  to  the  sheer  beauty  of  the 
spot.  Vancouver  spreads  largely  over  rolling  hills  and 
little  peninsular  juttings  into  the  sea.  From  its  emi 
nences  there  sweep  unequalled  views  over  the  Gulf  of 
Georgia  and  northwestward  along  towering  mountain 
ranges  upon  whose  lower  slopes  the  firs  and  cedars 
marshal  themselves  in  green  battalions.  From  his  hotel 
window  he  would  gaze  in  contented  abstraction  over  the 
tidal  surges  through  the  First  Narrows  and  the  tall 
masts  of  shipping  in  a  spacious  harbor,  landlocked  and 
secure,  stretching  away  like  a  great  blue  lagoon  with 
motor  craft  and  ferries  and  squat  tugs  for  waterfowl. 
Thompson  loved  the  forest  as  a  man  loves  pleasant, 
familiar  things,  and  next  to  the  woods  his  affection 
turned  to  the  sea.  Here,  at  his  hand,  were  both  in  all 
their  primal  grandeur.  He  was  very  sure  he  would  like 
Vancouver. 

Whether  the  fact  that  he  encountered  the  Carrs 
before  he  was  three  days  in  town,  had  dinner  at  their 
home,  and  took  Sophie  once  to  luncheon  at  the  Granada 
Grill,  had  anything  to  do  with  this  conclusion  deponent 
sayeth  not.  To  be  sure  he  learned  with  the  first  frank 
gleam  in  Sophie's  gray  eyes  that  she  still  held  for  him 
that  mysterious  pulse-quickening  lure,  that  for  him  her 
presence  was  sufficient  to  stir  a  glow  no  other  woman 
had  ever  succeeded  in  kindling  ever  so  briefly.  But  he 
had  acquired  poise,  confidence,  a  self-mastery  not  to  be 
disputed.  He  said  to  himself  that  he  could  stand  the 


BURNED    BRIDGES 

gaff  now.  He  could  face  facts.  And  he  said  to  him 
self  further,  a  little  wistfully,  that  Sophie  Carr  was 
worth  all  the  pangs  she  had  ever  given  him  —  more. 

He  could  detect  no  change  in  her.  That  was  one  of 
the  queer,  personal  characteristics  she  possessed  —  that 
she  could  pass  beyond  his  ken  for  months,  for  years  he 
almost  believed,  and  when  he  met  her  again  she  would 
be  the  same,  voice,  manner,  little  tricks  of  speech  and 
gesture  unchanged.  Meeting  Sophie  after  that  year 
was  like  meeting  her  after  .a  week.  Barring  the  clothes 
and  the  surroundings  that  spoke  of  ample  means  taste 
fully  expended,  the  general  background  of  her  home 
and  associates,  she  seemed  to  him  unchanged.  Yet 
when  he  reflected,  he  was  not  so  sure  of  this.  Sophie 
was  gracious,  friendly,  frankly  interested  when  he 
talked  of  himself.  When  their  talk  ran  upon  imper 
sonal  things  the  old  nimbleness  of  mind  functioned. 
But  under  these  superficialities  he  could  only  guess, 
after  all,  what  the  essential  woman  of  her  was  now. 
He  could  not  say  if  she  were  still  the  queer,  self-disci 
plined  mixture  of  cold  logic  and  primitive  passion  the 
Sophie  Carr  of  Lone  Moose  had  revealed  to  him.  He 
was  not  sure  if  he  desired  to  explore  in  that  direction. 
The  old  scars  remained.  He  shrank  from  acquiring 
new  ones,  yet  perforce  let  his  thought  dwell  upon  her 
with  reviving  concentration.  After  all,  he  said  to  him 
self,  it  was  on  the  knees  of  the  gods. 

At  any  rate  he  was  not  to  be  deterred  from  his 
project.  He  had  served  his  apprenticeship  in  the  game. 
He  was  eager  to  try  his  own  wings  in  a  flight  of  his 
own  choosing. 


THE    SHADOW  213 

Since  he  had  evolved  a  definite  plan  of  going  about 
that,  he  entered  decisively  upon  the  first  step.  Upon 
reaching  San  Francisco  he  bearded  John  P.  Henderson 
in  his  mahogany  den  and  outlined  a  scheme  which  made 
that  worthy  gentleman's  eyes  widen.  He  heard  Thomp 
son  to  an  end,  however,  with  a  growing  twinkle  in 
those  same,  shrewd,  worldly-wise  orbs,  and  at  the  finish 
thumped  a  plump  fist  on  his  desk  with  a  force  that 
made  the  pen-rack  jingle. 

"  Damned  if  I  don't  go  you,"  he  exclaimed.  "  I  said 
in  the  beginning  you'd  make  a  salesman,  and  you've 
made  good.  You'll  make  good  in  this.  If  you  don't 
it  isn't  for  lack  of  vision  —  and  nerve." 

"  Nerve,"  he  chuckled  over  the  word.  "  You  know  it 
isn't  good  business  for  me.  I'll  be  losing  a  valuable 
man  off  my  staff,  and  I'll  be  taking  longer  chances  than 
it  has  ever  been  my  policy  to  take.  Your  only  real 
asset  is  —  yourself.  That  isn't  a  negotiable  security." 

"  Not  exactly,"  Thompson  returned.  "  Still  in  your 
business  you  are  compelled  —  every  big  business  is  com 
pelled  —  to  place  implicit  trust  in  certain  men.  From 
a  commercial  point  of  view  this  move  of  mine  should 
prove  even  more  profitable  to  you  than  if  I  remain  on 
your  staff  as  a  salesman  —  provided  your  estimate  of 
me,  and  my  own  estimate  of  myself,  is  approximately 
correct.  You  must  have  an  outlet  for  your  product. 
I  will  still  be  making  money  for  you.  In  addition  I 
shall  be  developing  a  market  that  will,  perhaps  before 
so  very  long,  absorb  a  tremendous  number  of  cars." 

"  Oh,  there's  no  argument.  I'm  committed  to  the 
enterprise,"  Henderson  declared.  "  I  believe  in  you, 


2i4  BURNED    BRIDGES 

Thompson.  Otherwise  I  couldn't  see  your  proposition 
with  a  microscope.  Well,  I'll  embody  the  various  points 
in  a  contract.  Come  in  this  afternoon  and  sign  up." 

As  easily  as  that.  Thompson  went  down  the  half- 
flight  of  stairs  still  a  trifle  incredible  over  the  ease  with 
which  he  had  accomplished  a  stroke  that  meant  —  oh, 
well,  to  his  sanguine  vision  there  was  no  limit. 

He  felt  pretty  much  as  he  had  felt  when  he  sold  his 
first  Groya  to  an  apparently  hopeless  prospect,  elated, 
a  little  astonished  at  his  success,  brimful  of  confidence 
to  cope  with  the  next  problem. 

The  ego  in  him  clamored  to  be  about  this  bigger 
business.  But  that  was  not  possible.  He  came  back 
to  earth  presently  with  the  recollection  that  the  Sum 
mits  would  not  be  ready  for  distribution  before  late 
October  —  and  for  the  next  five  months  the  more 
Groyas  he  sold  the  better  position  he  would  be  in  when 
he  went  on  his  own. 

So  when  he  finally  had  in  his  hands  a  dealer's  contract 
covering  the  Province  of  British  Columbia  he  put  the 
matter  out  of  his  mind  —  except  for  occasional  day- 
dreamings  upon  it  in  idle  moments  —  and  gave  himself 
whole-heartedly  to  serving  the  house  of  Henderson. 

Time  passed  uneventfully  enough.  June  went  its  way 
with  its  brides  and  flowers.  July  drove  folk  upon  vaca 
tions  to  the  seaside  resorts. 

And  in  August  there  burst  upon  an  incredulous  world 
the  jagged  lightnings  and  cannon-thunder  of  war. 

It  would  be  waste  words  to  describe  here  the  varying 
fortunes  of  the  grappling  armies  during  the  next  few 
months.  The  newspapers  and  current  periodicals  and 


THE    SHADOW  215 

countless  self-appointed  historians  have  attended  to 
that.  It  is  all  recorded,  so  that  one  must  run  to  read 
it  all.  It  is  as  terribly  vivid  to  us  now  as  it  was  distant 
and  shadowy  then  —  a  madness  of  slaughter  and  de 
struction  that  raged  on  the  other  side  of  the  earth,  a 
terror  from  which  we  stood  comfortably  aloof. 

There  was  something  in  the  war  unseen  by  Thompson 
and  the  Hendersons  and  a  countless  host  of  intelligent, 
well-dressed,  comfortable  people  who  bought  extras  wet 
from  the  press  to  read  of  that  merciless  thrust  through 
Belgium,  the  shock  and  recoil  and  counter-shock  of 
armies,  of  death  dealt  wholesale  with  scientific  precision, 
of  42-centimeter  guns  and  poison  gas  and  all  the  rest 
of  that  bloody  nightmare  —  they  did  not  see  the  dread 
shadow  that  hung  over  Europe  lengthening  and  spread 
ing  until  its  murky  pall  should  span  the  Atlantic. 

Thompson  was  a  Canadian.  He  knew  by  the  papers 
that  Canada  was  at  war,  a  voluntary  participant.  But 
it  did  not  strike  him  that  he  was  at  war.  He  felt  no 
call  to  arms.  In  San  Francisco  there  was  no  common 
ferment  in  the  public  mind,  no  marching  troops,  no 
military  bands  making  a  man's  feet  tingle  to  follow  as 
they  passed  by.  Men  discussed  the  war  in  much  the 
same  tone  as  they  discussed  the  stock  market.  If  there 
was  any  definite  feeling  in  the  matter  it  was  that  the 
European  outbreak  was  strictly  a  European  affair. 
When  the  German  spearhead  blunted  its  point  against 
the  Franco-British  legions  and  the  gray  hosts  recoiled 
upon  the  Marne,  the  Amateur  Board  of  Strategy  said 
it  would  be  over  in  six  months. 

In  any  case,  American  tradition  explicitly  postulated 


2i6  BURNED    BRIDGES 

that  what  occurred  in  Europe  was  not,  could  not,  be 
vital  to  Americans.  But  in  the  last  test  blood  proves 
thicker  than  water.  Sentimentally,  the  men  Thompson 
knew  were  pro-Ally.  Only,  in  practice  there  was  no 
apparent  reason  why  they  should  do  otherwise  than  as 
they  had  been  doing.  And  in  effect  San  Francisco  only 
emulated  her  sister  cities  when  she  proceeded  about 
"  business  as  usual  " — just  as  in  those  early  days,  be 
fore  the  war  had  bitten  deep  into  their  flesh  and  blood, 
British  merchants  flung  that  slogan  in  the  face  of  the 
enemy. 

So  that  to  Wes  Thompson,  concentrated  upon  his 
personal  affairs,  the  war  never  became  more  than  some 
thing  akin  to  a  bad  dream  recalled  at  midday,  an  unreal 
sort  of  thing.  Something  that  indubitably  existed 
without  making  half  the  impression  upon  him  that  see 
ing  a  pedestrian  mangled  under  a  street  car  made  upon 
him  during  that  summer.  The  war  aroused  his  inter 
est,  but  left  his  emotions  unstirred.  There  was  nothing 
martial  about  him.  He  dreamed  no  dreams  of  glory  on 
the  battlefield.  He  had  never  thought  of  the  British 
Empire  as  something  to  die  for.  The  issue  was  not 
clear  to  him,  just  as  it  failed  to  clarify  itself  to  a  great 
many  people  in  those  days.  The  maiden  aunts  and  all 
his  early  environment  had  shut  off  the  bigger  vision 
that  was  sending  a  steady  stream  of  Canadian  battal 
ions  overseas. 

When  the  Battle  of  the  Marne  was  past  history  and 
the  opposing  armies  had  dug  themselves  in  and  the 
ghastly  business  of  the  trenches  had  begun,  Thompson 
was  more  than  ever  immersed  in  pursuit  of  the  main 


THE    SHADOW  217 

chance,  for  he  was  then  engaged  in  organizing  Summit 
Motors  in  Vancouver.  There  had  been  a  period  when 
his  optimism  about  his  prospects  had  suffered  a  relapse. 
He  had  half-expected  that  Canada's  participation  in 
that  devil's  dance  across  the  sea  would  spoil  things  com 
mercially.  There  had  been  a  sort  of  temporary  demor 
alization  on  both  sides  of  the  line,  at  first.  But  that 
was  presently  adjusted.  Through  Tommy  Ashe  and 
other  sources  he  learned  that  business  in  Vancouver 
was  actually  looking  up  because  of  the  war. 

He  was  a  little  surprised  that  Tommy  was  not  off 
to  the  war.  Tommy  loved  his  England.  He  was  for 
ever  singing  England's  praises.  England  was  "  home  " 
to  Tommy  Ashe  always.  It  was  only  a  name  to 
Thompson.  And  he  thought,  when  he  thought  about 
it  at  all,  that  if  England's  need  was  not  great  enough 
to  call  her  native-born,  that  the  Allies  must  have  the 
situation  well  in  hand;  as  the  papers  had  a  way  of 
stating. 

He  had  other  fish  to  fry,  himself,  without  rushing  off 
to  the  front.  As  a  matter  of  fact  he  never  consciously 
considered  the  question  of  going  to  the  front.  That 
never  occurred  to  him.  When  he  did  think  of  the  war 
he  thought  of  it  impersonally,  as  a  busy  man  invariably 
does  think  of  matters  which  do  not  directly  concern 
him. 

What  did  concern  him  most  vitally  was  the  project 
he  had  in  hand.  And  next  to  those  ambitions,  material 
considerations,  his  fancy  touched  shyly  now  and  then 
upon  Sophie  Carr. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE   EENEWED   TRIANGLE 

EVEN  after  Thompson  reached  Vancouver  and  the 
visible  signs  of  a  nation  at  war  confronted  him  he  expe 
rienced  no  patriotic  thrill.  After  all,  there  was  no 
great  difference,  on  the  surface,  between  San  Francisco 
and  Vancouver,  save  that  Vancouver  accepted  as  a  mat 
ter  of  course  the  principle  that  when  the  mother  country 
was  at  war  Canada  was  also  a  belligerent  and  committed 
to  support.  Barring  the  recruiting  offices  draped  in 
the  Allied  colors,  squads  of  men  drilling  on  certain  pub 
lic  squares,  successive  tag  days  for  the  Red  Cross,  tht 
Patriotic  fund  and  such  organizations,  the  war  did  not 
flaunt  itself  in  men's  faces.  The  first  hot  wave  of  feel 
ing  had  passed.  The  thing  had  become  a  grim  busi 
ness  to  be  gone  about  in  grim  determination.  And  side 
by  side  with  those  unostensible  preparations  that  kepi 
a  stream  of  armed  men  passing  quietly  overseas,  the 
normal  business  of  a  city  waxed  and  throve  in  the  old 
accustomed  way.  Thompson's  most  vivid  impressioi 
was  of  accelerating  business  activity,  and  that  was  his 
chief  concern.  The  other  thing,  which  convulsed 
far-off  continent,  was  too  distant  to  be  a  reality 
like  an  earthquake  in  Japan,  a  reported  famine  in  India. 

He  went  about  his  business  circumspectly,  without 


THE    RENEWED    TRIANGLE  219 

loss  of  time.  He  leased  a  good  location,  wired  the 
factory  to  ship  at  once,  began  a  modest  advertising 
campaign  in  the  local  papers,  and  as  a  business  coup 
collared  —  at  a  fat  salary  and  liberal  commission  — 
the  best  salesman  on  the  staff  of  the  concern  doing  the 
biggest  motor-car  business  in  town.  Thompson  had 
learned  certain  business  lessons  well.  He  had  perceived 
long  since  that  it  was  a  cutthroat  game  when  compe 
tition  grew  keen.  And  this  matter  of  the  salesman  was 
his  first  blood  in  that  line.  The  man  brought  with  him 
a  list  of  prospects  as  long  as  his  arm,  and  a  wide 
acquaintance  in  the  town,  both  assets  of  exceeding  value. 
Altogether  Thompson  got  off  to  a  flying  start.  The 
arrangement  whereby  Henderson  consigned  cars  to  him 
enabled  him  to  concentrate  all  his  small  capital  on  a 
sales  campaign.  He  paid  freight  and  duty.  His  cars 
he  paid  for  when  they  were  sold  —  and  the  discount  was 
his  profit. 

When  his  salesroom  was  formally  opened  to  the  pub 
lic,  with  five  Summits  on  the  floor  and  twice  as  many 
en  route,  when  his  undertaking  and  his  car  models  had 
received  the  unqualified  approval  of  a  surprising  num 
ber  of  callers,  Thompson  left  the  place  to  his  salesman 
and  went  to  see  Sophie  Can*. 

That  was  a  visit  born  of  sudden  impulse,  a  desire  to 
talk  about  something  besides  automobiles  and  making 
money.  But  Sophie  was  out.  Her  father,  however, 
made  him  welcome,  supplementing  his  welcome  with  red 
wine  that  carried  a  kick.  Thompson  sat  down  before 
a  fireplace,  glass  in  hand,  stretched  his  feet  to  the  fire, 
and  listened  to  his  host  talk. 


220  BURNED    BRIDGES 

"  Considering  your  early  handicaps  you  have  cer 
tainly  shown  some  speed  in  adapting  yourself  to  condi 
tions,"  Carr  observed  facetiously.  "  There  was  a  time 
when  I  didn't  believe  you  could.  Which  shows  that 
even  wise  men  err.  Material  factors  loom  bigger  and 
bigger  on  your  horizon,  don't  they?  Don't  let  'em 
obscure  everything  though,  Thompson.  That's  a  blun 
der  plenty  of  smart  men  make.  Well,  we've  progressed 
since  Lone  Moose  days,  haven't  we  —  the  four  of  us 
that  foregathered  there  that  last  summer?  " 

Thompson  smiled.  He  liked  to  hear  Carr  in  a  philo 
sophic  vein.  And  their  talk  ran  thence  for  an  hour. 
At  the  end  of  which  time  Sophie  came  home. 

She  walked  into  the  room,  shook  hands  with  Thomp 
son,  flung  her  coat,  hat,  and  furs  across  a  chair,  and 
drew  another  up  to  the  crackling  fire.  Outside,  the 
long  Northern  twilight  was  deepening.  Carr  rose  and 
switched  on  a  cluster  of  lights  in  frosted  globes.  In 
the  mellow  glow  he  resumed  his  seat,  and  his  glance  came 
to  rest  upon  his  daughter  with  a  curious  fixity,  as  if 
he  subtly  divined  something  that  troubled  her. 

"  What  is  it?  "  he  asked,  after  a  minute  of  unbroken 
silence.  "  You  look  — " 

"  Out  of  sorts  ?  "  she  interrupted.  "  Showing  up 
poorly  as  a  hostess?  " 

Her  look  included  Thompson  with  a  faint,  imper 
sonal  smile,  and  her  gaze  went  back  to  the  fire.  Sam 
Carr  held  his  peace,  toying  with  the  long-stemmed  glass 
in  his  hand. 

"  I  went  to  a  Belgian  Relief  Fund  lecture  in  the 
Granada  ballroom  this  afternoon,"  she  said  at  last. 


THE    RENEWED    TRIANGLE  221 

"  A  Belgian  woman  —  a  refugee  —  spoke  in  broken 
English.  The  things  she  told.  It  was  horrible.  I 
wonder  if  they  could  be  true?  " 

"  Atrocities  ?  "  Carr  questioned. 

Sophie  nodded. 

"  That's  propaganda,"  her  father  declared  judicially. 
"  We're  being  systematically  stimulated  to  ardent  sup 
port  of  the  war  in  men  and  money  through  the  press 
and  public  speaking,  through  every  available  avenue  that 
clever  minds  can  devise.  We  are  not  a  martial  nation, 
so  we  have  to  be  spurred,  our  emotions  aroused.  Of 
course  there  are  atrocities.  Is  there  an  instance  in  his 
tory  where  an  invading  army  did  not  commit  all  sorts 
of  excesses  on  enemy  soil  ?  " 

"  I  know,"  Sophie  said  absently.  "  But  this  woman's 
story  —  she  wasn't  one  of  your  glib  platform  spouters, 
flag-waving  and  calling  the  Germans  names.  She  just 
talked,  groping  now  and  then  for  the  right  word.  And 
if  a  tithe  of  what  she  told  is  true  —  well,  she  made  me 
wish  I  were  a  man." 

One  small,  soft  hand,  outstretched  over  the  chair-arm 
toward  the  fire,  shut  suddenly  into  a  hard  little  fist. 
And  for  a  moment  Thompson  felt  acutely  uncomfort 
able,  without  knowing  why. 

Carr  eyed  his  daughter  impassively.  In  a  few  sec 
onds  she  went  on. 

"  Of  course  I  know  that  in  any  large  army  there  is 
bound  to  be  a  certain  percentage  of  abnormals  who 
will  be  tip  to  all  sorts  of  deviltry  whenever  they  find 
themselves  free  of  direct  restraint,"  she  said.  "  The 
history  of  warfare  shows  that.  But  this  Belgian 


222  BURNED    BRIDGES 

woman's  account  puts  a  different  face  on  things.  These 
unmentionable  brutalities  weren't  isolated  cases.  Her 
story  gave  me  the  impression  of  ordered  barbarity,  of 
systematic  terrorizing  by  the  foulest  means  imaginable. 
The  sort  of  thing  the  papers  have  been  publishing  — 
and  worse." 

"  Discount  that,  Sophie,"  Carr  remarked  calmly. 
"  The  Germans  are  reckoned  in  the  civilized  scale  the 
same  as  ourselves.  I'm  not  ready  to  damn  sixty-five 
million  human  beings  outright  because  certain  members 
of  the  group  act  like  brutes.  The  chances  are  that  a 
German  soldier  would  be  shot  by  his  own  command,  for 
robbery  or  rape  or  any  of  these  brutalities,  as  promptly 
as  one  of  our  own  offenders.  The  fact  of  the  matter 
is  that  there  are  a  lot  of  hysterical  people  loose  among 
us  who  seem  to  think  they  can  kill  German  soldiers  by 
calling  them  bad  names.  The  Allies  will  win  this  war 
with  cannon  and  bayonets,  but  up  to  the  present  we 
seem  to  think  we  must  supplement  our  bullets  with  epi 
thets.  Doubtless  the  Germans  do  the  same  at  home. 
It's  part  of  the  game." 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  so,"  Sophie  admitted.  "  But  what 
a  horror  this  war  must  be  for  those  helpless  people  who 
are  caught  in  its  sweep." 

"  If  it  affects  you  like  that,  be  thankful  it  isn't  over 
here,"  Carr  said  lightly.  "  War  is  all  that  Sherman 
said  it  was.  As  a  matter  of  fact  modern  warfare  with 
every  scientific  and  chemical  means  of  destruction  at 
its  hand  can't  result  in  anything  but  horror  piled  on 
horror.  I  look  for  some  startling  — 

The  faint  whirr  of  a  buzzer  and  the  patter  of  a  maid's 


THE    RENEWED    TRIANGLE  223 

feet  along  the  hall,  checked  Carr's  speech.  He  did  not 
resume.  Instead  he  reached  for  a  box  of  cigars,  and 
lighted  one.  By  that  time  Tommy  Ashe  was  being 
ushered  in. 

Tommy  exuded  geniality  from  every  pore  of  his 
ruddy  countenance.  He  accepted  the  drink  Carr  rose 
to  offer.  He  lifted  the  glass  and  smiled  at  Thompson. 

"  Here's  to  success,"  he  toasted.  "  I  believe,"  he 
went  on  between  sips  of  wine,  "  that  things  are  going  to 
look  up  finely  for  us.  I  sold  a  truck  and  two  touring 
cars  this  afternoon.  People  seem  to  be  loosening  up 
for  some  reason.  You  ought  to  get  your  share  with 
the  Summit,  Wes.  Snappy  little  machine,  that." 

"  You  rising  business  men,"  Carr  drawled,  "  want  to 
learn  to  leave  your  business  at  the  office  when  you  come 
to  my  house.  Now,  we  were  just  discussing  the  war. 
What  sort  of  a  prophet  are  you,  Tommy?  How  long 
will  it  last?  Sophie  was  wondering  if  it  would  be  over 
before  all  the  eligible  young  men  depart  across  the  sea." 

"  Well,"  Tommy  grinned  cheerfully,  "  I'm  no 
prophet.  Not  being  in  the  confidence  of  the  Allied 
command,  I  can't  say.  I'd  hazard  a  guess,  though, 
that  there'll  be  plenty  of  good  men  left  for  Sophie  to 
make  a  choice  among.  I  can  pass  on  another  man's 
prophecy,  though.  Had  a  letter  from  one  of  my  broth 
ers  yesterday.  He  was  at  Mons,  got  pinked  in  the  leg, 
and  is  now  training  Territorials.  He  is  sure  the  grand 
finale  will  come  about  midsummer  next.  The  way  he 
put  it  sounds  logical.  Neither  side  can  make  headway 
this  winter.  Germany  has  made  her  maximum  effort. 
If  she  couldn't  beat  us  when  she  took  the  field  equipped 


224  BURNED    BRIDGES 

to  the  last  button  she  never  can.  By  spring  we'll  be 
organized.  France  and  England  on  the  west  front. 
The  Russian  steam  roller  on  the  east.  The  fleet  main 
taining  the  blockade.  They  can't  stand  the  pressure. 
It  isn't  possible.  The  Hun  —  confound  him  —  will 
blow  up  with  a  loud  bang  about  next  July.  That's 
Ned's  say-so,  and  these  line  officers  are  pretty  conserva 
tive  as  a  rule.  War's  their  business,  and  they  don't 
nurse  illusions  about  it." 

"  In  the  meantime,  let's  talk  about  selling  automo 
biles,  or  the  weather,  anything  but  the  war,"  Sophie 
said  suddenly.  She  pressed  a  button  on  the  wall. 
"  We're  going  to  drink  tea  and  forget  the  war,"  she 
continued  almost  defiantly.  "  I  won't  ask  either  of  you 
to  stay  for  dinner,  because  I'm  going  out." 

Carr's  house  sat  on  a  slope  that  dipped  down  to  a 
long  narrow  park,  and  beyond  that  to  a  beach  on  which 
slow  rollers  from  the  outside  broke  with  a  sound  like 
the  snore  of  a  distant  giant.  Along  that  slope  and 
away  to  the  eastward  the  city  was  speckled  with  lights, 
although  it  was  barely  five  o'clock,  so  early  does  dark 
close  in  in  that  latitude  when  the  year  is  far  spent.  And 
when  the  maid  trundled  in  a  tea-wagon,  that  vista  of 
twinkling  specks,  and  the  more  distant  flash  of  Point 
Atkinson  light  intermittently  stabbing  the  murky  Gulf, 
was  shut  away  by  drawn  blinds,  and  the  four  of  them 
sat  in  the  cosy  room  eating  little  cakes  and  drinking 
tea  and  chatting  lightly  of  things  that  bulked  smaller 
than  the  war. 

Presently  Sam  Carr  drew  Tommy  away  to  the  library 
to  look  up  some  legal  technicality  over  which  they  had 


THE    RENEWED    TRIANGLE  225 

fallen  into  dispute.  Sophie  lay  back  in  her  chair,  eyes 
fixed  on  the  red  glow  of  the  embers  as  if  she  saw  through 
them  and  into  vast  distances  beyond. 

And  Thompson  sat  covertly  looking  at  her  profile, 
the  dull  gold  of  her  coiled  hair,  the  red-lipped  mouth 
that  was  made  for  kisses  and  laughter  —  and  he  was 
glad  just  to  look  at  her,  to  be  near.  For  he  was  begin 
ning  to  say  to  himself  that  it  was  no  good  fighting 
against  fate,  that  this  girl  had  put  some  spell  on  him 
from  which  he  would  never  be  wholly  free.  Nor  did  he, 
in  that  mood,  desire  to  be  free.  He  wanted  that  spell 
to  grow  so  strong  that  in  the  end  it  would  weave  itself 
about  her  too,  make  love  beget  love.  There  was  quick 
ening  in  him  again  that  desire  to  pursue,  to  conquer, 
to  possess.  The  ego  in  him  whispered  that  once  for  a 
moment  Sophie  had  rested  like  a  homing  bird  in  his 
arms,  and  would  again.  But  he  was  not  to  be  betrayed 
by  headlong  impulse.  The  time  was  not  yet.  Instinct 
warned  him  that  in  some  fashion,  vague,  unrevealed,  he 
had  still  to  prove  himself  to  Sophie  Carr.  He  was 
aware  intuitively  that  she  weighed  him  in  the  balance 
of  cold,  critical  reason,  against  any  eYnotional  appeal 
—  just  as  he,  himself,  was  learning  to  weigh  things  and 
men.  He  did  not  know  this.  He  only  felt  it.  But  he 
felt  sure  of  his  instinct  where  she  was  concerned. 

And  so  he  was  content,  for  the  time,  with  the  privi 
lege  of  being  near  her.  Some  day  — 

Sophie  looked  at  him.  For  the  moment  his  own  gaze 
had  wandered  from  her  to  the  fire,  his  mind  yielding 
tentatively  to  rose-tinted  visions. 

"  A  penny  for  your  thoughts,"  she  said  lightly. 


226  BURNED    BRIDGES 

"  I  WAS  thinking  of  you,"  he  answered  truthfully. 

He  looked  up  as  he  spoke  and  his  heart  leaped  at  the 
faint  flush  that  rose  slowly  over  Sophie's  face.  Indeed 
all  the  high  resolve  that  had  been  shaping  in  his  soul 
for  the  past  ten  minutes  came  near  going  by  the  board. 
It  would  have  been  so  easy  to  imprison  the  hand  that 
lay  along  the  chair-arm  next  his  own,  to  utter  words 
that  trembled  on  his  tongue,  to  break  through  the  ice 
that  Sophie  used  as  a  shield  —  for  the  instant  he  felt 
sure  of  that  —  and  dare  what  fires  burned  beneath. 

While  he  stood,  poised  as  it  were,  upon  the  tip-toe  of 
indecision,  Carr  and  Tommy  Ashe  came  back. 

Afterward,  on  his  way  home,  Thompson  wondered 
at  the  swift  challenging  glance  Tommy  shot  at  Sophie 
in  that  moment.  As  if  Tommy  detected  some  tensity  of 
feeling  that  he  resented. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

SUNDRY    REFLECTIONS 

THAT  winter  and  the  summer  which  followed,  and 
the  period  which  carried  him  into  the  spring  of  1916, 
was  materially  a  triumphal  procession  for  Wes  Thomp 
son.  Tommy's  forecast  of  the  war's  ending  had  fallen 
short  as  so  many  other  forecasts  did.  The  war  went 
on,  developing  its  own  particular  horrors  as  it  spread. 
But  the  varying  tides  of  war,  and  the  manifold  demands 
of  war,  bestowed  upon  Vancouver  a  heaping  measure  of 
prosperity,  and  Vancouver,  in  the  person  of  its  business 
men,  was  rather  too  far  from  the  sweat  and  blood  of  the 
struggle  to  be  distracted  by  the  issues  of  that  struggle 
from  its  own  immediate  purposes.  Business  men  were 
in  business  to  make  money.  They  supported  the  war 
effort.  Every  one  could  not  go  to  the  trenches.  Work 
ers  were  as  necessary  to  victory  as  fighters.  People 
had  to  be  fed  and  clothed.  The  army  had  to  be  fed 
and  clothed,  transported  and  munitioned.  And  the 
fact  that  the  supplying  and  equipping  and  transporting 
was  highly  profitable  to  those  engaged  in  such  pursuits 
did  not  detract  from  the  essentially  patriotic  and  neces 
sary  performance  of  these  tasks. 

The  effect  on  Vancouver  was  an  industrial  rejuvena- 


228  BURNED    BRIDGES 

tion.  Money  flowed  in  all  sorts  of  channels  hitherto 
nearly  dry.  A  lot  of  it  flowed  to  Wesley  Thompson  in 
exchange  for  Summit  cars.  Thompson  was  like  many 
other  men  in  Vancouver.  He  was  very  busy.  The  busi 
ness  stood  on  its  feet  by  virtue  of  his  direction.  If  he 
dropped  it  and  rushed  off  to  the  war  —  well  there  was 
no  lack  of  men,  men  who  had  no  particular  standing, 
men  who  could  not  subscribe  to  war  charities,  to  Do 
minion  war-bond  issues.  There  was  plenty  of  man 
power.  There  was  never  a  surplus  of  brain-power. 
Business  was  necessary.  So  a  man  with  a  live,  thriv 
ing  business  was  fighting  in  his  own  way  —  doing  his 
bit  to  keep  the  wheels  turning  —  standing  stoutly  be 
hind  the  fellow  with  a  bayonet.  And  a  lot  of  them  let 
it  go  at  that.  A  lot  of  them  saw  no  pressing  need  to 
don  khaki  and  let  everything  else  go  to  pot.  A  lot  of 
them  were  so  intent  upon  making  the  most  of  their 
opportunities  that  they  never  brought  their  innermost 
thoughts  out  on  the  table  and  asked  themselves  point- 
blank  :  "  Should  I  go?  Why  shouldn't  I?  "  And  there 
were  some  who  saw  dimly  —  as  the  months  slid  by  with 
air  raids  and  submarine  sinkings  and  all  the  new,  ter 
rible  devices  of  death  and  destruction  which  trans 
gressed  the  old  usages  of  war  —  there  were  some  who 
were  troubled  without  knowing  why.  There  were  men 
who  hated  bloodshed,  who  hated  violence,  who  wished 
to  live  and  love  and  go  their  ways  in  peace,  but  who 
began  uneasily  to  question  whether  these  things  the; 
valued  were  of  such  high  value  after  all. 

And  Wes  Thompson  was  one  of  these.     Deep  in  hin 
his  emotions  were  stirring.     The  old  tribal  instinct  — 


SUNDRY    REFLECTIONS  229 

which  sent  a  man  forth  to  fight  for  the  tribe  no  matter 
the  cause  —  was  functioning  under  the  layer  of  stuff 
that  civilization  imposes  on  every  man.  His  reason 
gainsaid  these  stirrings,  those  instinctive  urgings,  but 
there  was  a  stirring  and  it  troubled  him.  He  did  not 
desire  to  die  in  a  trench,  nor  vanish  in  fragments  before 
a  bursting  shell,  nor  lie  face  to  the  stars  in  No  Man's 
Land  with  a  bayonet  hole  in  his  middle.  He  would  not 
risk  these  fatalities  for  any  such  academic  idea  as  sav 
ing  the  world  for  democracy. 

Always  when  that  queer,  semi-dormant  tribe  instinct 
suggested  that  he  go  fight  with  the  tribe  against  the 
tribal  enemy  his  reason  swiftly  choked  the  impulse. 
He  would  not  fight  for  a  political  abstraction.  He  had 
read  history.  It  is  littered  with  broken  treaties.  If 
he  fought  it  would  be  because  he  felt  there  was  need  to 
strike  a  blow  for  something  righteous.  And  his  faith 
in  the  righteousness  of  the  Allied  cause  was  still  un- 
fired.  He  saw  no  mission  to  compel  justice,  to  exact 
retribution,  only  a  clash  of  Great  Powers,  in  which  the 
common  man  was  fed  to  the  roaring  guns. 

But  he  was  not  so  obtuse  as  to  fail  of  seeing  the  near 
future.  The  Germans  were  proving  a  right  hard  nut 
to  crack.  It  might  be  —  remotely  —  that  a  man  would 
have  no  choice  in  the  matter  of  fighting.  He  saw  that 
cloud  on  the  horizon.  Sometimes  he  wished  that  he 
could  muster  up  a  genuine  enthusiasm  for  this  business 
of  war.  He  saw  men  who  had  it  and  wondered  pri 
vately  how  they  came  by  it. 

If  he  could  have  felt  it  an  imperative  duty  laid  upon 
him,  that  would  have  settled  certain  matters  out  of 


330  BURNED    BRIDGES 

hand.     Chief  among^  these  would  have  been  the  prob 
lem  of  Sophie  Carr. 

Sophie  eluded  and  mystified  him.  Not  wholly  in  a 
physical  sense  —  although,  to  be  exact,  she  did  become 
less  accessible  in  a  purely  physical  sense.  But  it  went 
deeper  than  that.  During  the  eighteen  months  follow 
ing  Thompson's  motor-sales  delnit  he  never  succeeded  in 
establishing  between  them  the  same  sense  of  spiritual 
communion  that  he  had  briefly  glimpsed  those  few  min 
utes  in  Carr's  home  on  the  way  he  opened  his  salesroom. 

There  was  Tommy,  for  instance.  Tommy  was  far 
closer  to  Sophie  Carr  than  he,  Thompson,  could  man 
age  to  come,  no  matter  how  he  tried.  He  and  Tommy 
were  friends.  They  had  apartments  in  the  same  house. 
They  saw  each  other  constantly.  The  matter  of  com 
petition  in  business  was  purely  nominal.  They  were 
both  too  successful  in  business  to  be  envious  of  each 
other  in  that  respect.  But  where  Sophie  Carr  was  con 
cerned  it  was  a  conflict,  no  less  existent  because  neither 
man  ever  betrayed  his  consciousness  of  such  a  conflict. 
Indeed  Thompson  sometimes  wondered  uneasily  if  Ashe's 
serenity  came  from  an  understanding  with  her.  But 
he  doubted  that.  Tommy  had  not  won  —  yet.  That 
intangible  yet  impenetrable  wall  which  was  rising  about 
Sophie  was  built  of  other,  sterner  stuff. 

She  seldom  touched  on  the  war,  never  more  than  a 
casual  sentence  or  two.  Perhaps  a  phrase  would  flash 
like  a  sword,  and  then  her  lips  would  close.  Carr  would 
discuss  the  war  from  any  angle  whatsoever,  at  any 
time.  It  became  an  engrossing  topic  with  him,  as  if 
there  were  phases  that  puzzled  him,  upon  which  he  de- 


SUNDRY    REFLECTIONS  231 

sired  light.  He  ceased  to  be  positive.  But  his  daugh 
ter  shunned  war  talk. 

Yet  the  war  levied  high  toll  on  her  waking  hours,  and 
for  that  reason  Thompson  seldom  saw  her  save  in  com 
pany.  His  vision  of  little  dinners,  of  drives  together, 
of  impromptu  luncheons,  of  a  steady  siege  in  which  the 
sheer  warmth  of  that  passion  in  him  should  force  capitu 
lation  to  his  love  —  all  those  pleasant  dreams  went 
a-glimmering.  Sophie  was  always  on  some  committee, 
directing  some  activity  growing  out  of  the  war,  Red 
Cross  work,  Patriotic  Fund,  all  those  manifold  avenues 
through  which  the  women  fought  their  share  of  Can 
ada's  fight.  For  a  pleasure-loving  creature  Sophie 
Carr  seemed  to  have  undergone  an  astonishing  metamor 
phosis.  She  spent  on  these  things,  quietly,  without 
parade  or  press-agenting,  all  the  energy  in  her,  and 
she  had  no  reserve  left  for  play.  War  work  seemed  to 
mean  something  to  Sophie  besides  write-ups  in  the  so 
ciety  column  and  pictures  of  her  in  sundry  poses. 
These  things  besides,  surrounded  her  with  all  sorts  of 
fussy  people,  both  male  and  female,  and  through  this 
cordon  Thompson  seldom  broke  for  confidential  talk 
with  her.  When  he  did  Sophie  baffled  him  with  her  calm 
detachment,  a  profound  and  ever-increasing  reserve  — 
as  if  she  had  ceased  to  be  a  woman  and  become  a  mere, 
coldly  beautiful  mechanism  for  seeing  about  shipments 
of  bandage  stuff,  for  collecting  funds,  and  devising  prac 
tical  methods  of  raising  more  funds  and  creating  more 
supplies. 

Thompson  said  as  much  to  her  one  day.  She  looked 
at  him  unmoved,  unsmiling.  And  something  that  lurked 


232  BURNED    BRIDGES 

in  her  clear  gray  eyes  made  him  uncomfortable,  sent 
him  away  wondering.  It  was  as  if  somehow  she  dis 
approved.  A  shadowy  impression  at  best.  He  won 
dered  if  Tommy  fared  any  better,  and  he  was  con 
strained  to  think  Tommy  did  because  Tommy  went  in 
for  patriotic  work  a  good  deal,  activities  that  threw 
him  in  pretty  close  contact  with  Sophie. 

"  I  can  spare  the  time,"  he  confided  to  Thompson 
one  day.  "  And  it's  good  business.  I  meet  some  pretty 
influential  people.  Why  don't  you  spread  yourself  a 
little  more,  Wes?  They'll  be  saying  you're  a  slacker 
if  you  don't  make  a  noise." 

"  I  don't  fight  the  Germans  with  my  mouth,"  Thomp 
son  responded  shortly.  And  Tommy  laughed. 

"  That's  a  popular  weapon  these  days,"  he  returned 
lightly.  "  It  does  no  harm  to  go  armed  with  it." 

Thompson  refrained  from  further  speech.  That  very 
morning  in  the  lobby  of  the  Granada  Thompson  had 
heard  one  man  sneer  at  another  for  a  slacker  —  and 
get  knocked  down  for  his  pains.  He  did  not  want  to 
inflict  that  indignity  on  Tommy,  and  he  felt  that  he 
would  if  Tommy  made  any  more  cynical  reflections. 

Of  course,  that  was  a  mere  flaring-up  of  resentment 
at  the  fact  that,  to  save  his  soul,  he  could  not  get  off 
the  fence.  He  could  not  view  the  war  as  a  matter  vital 
to  himself;  nor  could  he  do  like  Tommy  Ashe,  play 
patriotic  tunes  with  one  hand  while  the  other  reached 
slyly  forth  to  grasp  power  and  privilege  of  whatever 
degree  came  within  reach. 

And  in  the  meantime  both  men,  and  other  men  like 
wise,  went  about  their  daily  affairs.  Vancouver  grew 


SUNDRY    REFLECTIONS  233 

and  prospered,  and  the  growth  of  Summit  sales  left  an 
increasing  balance  on  the  profit  side  of  Thompson's 
ledger.  Moreover  the  rapid  and  steady  growth  of  his 
business  kept  his  mind  on  the  business.  It  worked  out 
—  his  business  preoccupation  —  much  in  the  manner  of 
the  old  story  of  fleas  and  dogs,  to  wit :  a  certain  number 
of  fleas  is  good  for  a  dog.  They  keep  him  from  brood 
ing  over  the  fact  that  he  **  a  dog. 

So,  save  for  the  fact  that  he  continued  to  make  money 
and  was  busy  and  realized  now  and  then  that  he  had 
come  to  a  disheartening  impasse  with  Sophie,  the  late 
spring  of  1916  found  Thompson  mentally,  morally  and 
spiritually  holding  fast  by  certain  props. 

He  had  come  a  long  way,  and  he  had  yet  a  long  way 
to  go.  He  had  come  to  Lone  Moose  very  much  after 
the  fashion  of  St.  Simeon  Stylites  all  prepared  to  mount 
a  spiritual  pillar  and  make  a  bid  for  sainthood.  But 
pillar  hermits,  he  discovered,  when  harsh,  material  facts 
tore  the  evangelistic  blinkers  off  his  eyes,  were  neither 
useful  in  the  world  nor  acceptable  on  high.  He  had 
been  in  a  very  bad  way  for  awhile.  When  a  man  loses 
his  own  self-respect  and  the  faith  of  his  fathers  at  one 
stroke  he  is  apt  to  suffer  intensely.  Thompson  had  not 
quite  reached  that  pass,  when  he  came  down  to  Wrangel 
by  the  sea,  but  he  was  not  far  off.  When  he  looked 
back,  he  could  scarcely  trace  by  what  successive  steps 
he  had  traveled.  But  he  had  got  up  out  of  that  puddle 
into  which  a  harsh  environment  and  wounded  egotism 
had  cast  him.  He  was  in  a  way  to  be  what  the  world 
called  a  success. 

He  was  not  so  sure  of  that  himself.     But  he  staved 


234  BURNED    BRIDGES 

himself  with  certain  props,  as  before  mentioned.  The 
base  of  more  than  one  of  these  useful  supports  had 
been  undermined  some  time  before  by  a  sequence  of 
events  which  presented  the  paradox  of  being  familiar  to 
him  and  still  beyond  his  comprehension. 

He  was  a  long  way  from  being  aware,  in  those  early 
summer  days  of  1916,  that  before  long  some  of  the 
aforementioned  props  were  to  buckle  under  him  with 
strange  and  disturbing  circumstances. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 


THE   FUSE 


IT  was  in  this  period  that  certain  phases  of  the  war 
began  to  shake  the  foundation  of  things.  I  do  not 
recall  who  said  that  an  army  marches  on  its  stomach, 
but  it  is  true,  and  it  is  no  less  a  verity  that  nations 
function  primarily  on  food.  The  submarine  was  wax 
ing  to  its  zenith  now,  and  Europe  saw  the  gaunt  wolf 
at  its  door.  Men  cried  for  more  ships.  Cost  became 
secondary.  A  vessel  paid  for  herself  if  she  landed  but 
two  cargoes  in  an  Allied  port. 

Every  demand  in  the  economic  field  produces  a  sup 
ply.  On  this  side  of  the  Atlantic  great  ship-building 
plants  arose  by  some  superior  magic  of  construction  in 
ports  where  the  building  of  ships  had  been  a  minor 
industry.  In  this  Vancouver  did  not  lag.  Wooden 
ships  could  be  built  quickly.  Virgin  forests  of  fir  and 
cedar  stood  at  Vancouver's  very  door.  Wherefore 
yards,  capable  of  turning  out  a  three-thousand-ton 
wooden  steamer  in  ninety  days,  rose  on  tidewater,  and 
an  army  of  labor  sawed  and  hammered  and  shaped  to 
the  ultimate  confusion  of  the  Hun. 

Thompson  had  seen  these  yards  in  the  distance.  He 
read  newspapers  and  he  knew  that  local  shipbuilding 


236  BURNED    BRIDGES 

was  playing  the  dual  purpose  of  confounding  the  enemy 
and  adding  a  huge  pay-roll  to  Vancouver's  other  mate 
rial  advantages.  Both  of  which  were  highly  desirable. 

But  few  details  of  this  came  personally  to  his  atten 
tion  until  an  evening  when  he  happened  to  foregather 
with  Tommy  Ashe  and  two  or  three  others  at  Carr's 
home  —  upon  one  of  those  rare  evenings  when  Sophie 
was  free  of  her  self-imposed  duties  and  in  a  mood  to 
play  the  hostess. 

They  had  dined,  and  were  gathered  upon  a  wide 
verandah  watching  the  sun  sink  behind  the  rampart  of 
Vancouver  Island  in  a  futurist  riot  of  yellow  and  red 
that  died  at  last  to  an  afterglow  which  lingered  on  the 
mountain  tops  like  a  benediction.  A  bit  of  the  Gulf 
opened  to  them,  steel-gray,  mirror-smooth,  more  like  a 
placid,  hill-ringed  lake  than  the  troubled  sea. 

But  there  was  more  in  the  eye's  cast  than  beauty  of 
sea  and  sky  and  setting  sun.  From  their  seats  they 
could  look  down  on  the  curious  jumble  of  long  sheds 
and  giant  scaffolding  that  was  the  great  Coughlan  steel 
shipyard  in  False  Creek.  Farther  distant,  on  the  North 
Shore,  there  was  the  yellowish  smudge  of  what  a  keen 
vision  discerned  to  be  six  wooden  schooners  in  a  row, 
sister  ships  in  varying  stages  of  construction. 

Some  one  said  something  about  wooden  shipbuilding. 

"  There's  another  big  yard  starting  on  the  North 
Shore,"  Sophie  said.  "  One  of  our  committee  was  tell 
ing  me  to-day.  Her  husband  has  something  to  do  with 
it." 

"Yes.  I  can  verify  that,"  Tommy  Ashe  smiled. 
**  That's  my  contribution  —  the  Vancouver  Construe- 


THE    FUSE  237 

tion  Company.  I  organized  it.  We  have  contracted  to 
supply  the  Imperial  Munitions  Board  with  ten  auxiliary 
schooners,  three  thousand  tons  burden  each." 

The  fourth  man  of  the  party,  the  lean,  suave,  enter 
prising  head  of  a  local  trust  company,  nodded  approval, 
eyeing  Tommy  with  new  interest. 

"  Good  business,"  he  commented.  "  We've  got  to 
beat  those  U-boats." 

"  Yes,"  Tommy  agreed,  "  and  until  the  Admiralty 
devises  some  effectual  method  of  coping  with  them,  the 
only  way  we  can  beat  the  subs  is  to  build  ships  faster 
than  they  can  sink  them.  It's  quite  some  undertaking, 
but  it  has  to  be  done.  If  we  fail  to  keep  supplies  pour 
ing  into  England  and  France.  Well  — " 

He  spread  his  hands  in  an  expressive  gesture. 
Tommy  was  that  type  of  Englishman  in  which  rugged 
health  and  some  generations  of  breeding  and  education 
have  combined  to  produce  what  Europe  calls  a  "gen 
tleman."  He  was  above  middle  height,  very  stoutly 
and  squarely  built,  ruddy  faced  —  the  sort  of  man  one 
may  safely  prophesy  will  acquire  a  paunch  and  double 
chin  with  middle  age.  But  Tommy  was  young  and 
vigorous  yet.  He  looked  very  capable,  almost  aggres 
sive,  as  he  sat  there  speaking  with  the  surety  of  patri 
otic  conviction. 

"  We're  all  in  it  now,"  he  said  simply.  "  It's  no 
longer  our  army  and  navy  against  their  army  and  navy 
and  the  rest  of  us  looking  on  from  the  side  lines.  It's 
our  complete  material  resources  and  man  power  against 
their  complete  resources  and  man  power.  If  they  win, 
the  world  won't  be  worth  living  in,  for  the  Anglo-Saxon. 


238  BURNED    BRIDGES 

So  we've  got  to  beat  them.  Every  man's  job  from  now 
on  is  going  to  be  either  fighting  or  working.  We've 
got  to  have  ships.  I'm  organizing  that  yard  to  work 
top-speed.  I'm  trying  to  set  a  pace.  Watch  us  on 
the  North  Shore.  The  man  in  the  trenches  won't  say 
we  didn't  back  him  up." 

It  sounded  well.  To  Thompson  it  gave  a  feeling  of 
dissatisfaction  which  was  nowise  lessened  by  the  mo 
mentary  gleam  in  Sophie's  eyes  as  they  rested  briefly 
on  Tommy  and  passed  casually  to  him  —  and  beyond. 

He  was  growing  slowly  to  understand  that  the  war 
had  somehow  —  in  a  fashion  beyond  his  comprehension 
—  bitten  deep  into  Sophie  Carr's  soul.  She  thought 
about  it,  if  she  seldom  talked.  What  was  perhaps  more 
vital,  she  felt  about  it  with  an  intensity  Thompson  could 
not  fathom,  because  he  had  not  experienced  such  feel 
ing  himself.  He  only  divined  this.  Sophie  never 
paraded  either  her  thoughts  or  her  feelings.  And 
divining  this  uneasily  he  foresaw  a  shortening  of  his 
stature  in  her  eyes  by  comparison  with  Tommy  Ashe  — 
who  had  become  a  doer,  a  creator  in  the  common  need, 
while  he  remained  a  gleaner  in  the  field  of  self-interest. 
Thompson  rather  resented  that  imputation.  Privately 
he  considered  Tommy's  speech  a  trifle  grandiloquent. 
He  began  to  think  he  had  underestimated  Tommy,  in 
more  ways  than  one. 

Nor  did  he  fail  to  wonder  at  the  dry  smile  that  hov 
ered  about  Sam  Carr's  lips  until  that  worthy  old  gentle 
man  put  his  hand  over  his  mouth  to  hide  it,  while  his 
shrewd  old  eyes  twinkled  with  inner  amusement.  There 
was  something  more  than  amusement,  too.  If  Wes 


THE    FUSE  239 

Thompson  had  not  known  that  Sam  Carr  liked  Tommy, 
rather  admired  his  push  and  ability  to  hold  his  own  in 
the  general  scramble,  he  would  have  said  Carr's  smile 
and  eyes  tinged  the  amusement  with  something  like 
contempt. 

That  puzzled  Thompson.  The  Dominion,  as  well  as 
the  Empire,  was  slowly  formulating  the  war-doctrine 
that  men  must  either  fight  or  work.  Tommy,  with  his 
executive  ability,  his  enthusiasm,  was  plunging  into  a 
needed  work.  Tommy  had  a  right  to  feel  that  he  was 
doing  a  big  thing.  Thompson  granted  him  that.  Why, 
then,  should  Carr  look  at  him  like  that? 

He  was  still  recurring  to  that  when  he  drove  down 
town  with  Tommy  later  in  the  evening.  He  was  not 
surprised  that  Tommy  sauntered  into  his  rooms  after 
putting  up  his  machine.  He  had  been  in  the  habit  of 
doing  that  until  lately,  and  Thompson  knew  now  that 
Tommy  must  have  been  very  busy  on  that  shipyard 
organization.  It  had  been  easy  for  them  to  drop  into 
the  old  intimacy  which  had  grown  up  between  them  on 
that  hard,  long  trail  between  Lone  Moose  and  the  Sti- 
kine.  They  had  a  lot  of  common  ground  to  meet  on 
besides  that. 

This  night  Tommy  had  something  on  his  mind  be 
sides  casual  conversation.  He  wasted  little  time  in  pre 
liminaries. 

"  Would  you  be  interested  in  taking  over  my  car 
agencies  on  a  percentage  basis,  Wes?  "  he  asked  point- 
blank,  when  he  had  settled  himself  in  a  chair  with  a 
cigar  in  his  mouth.  "  I  have  worked  up  a  good  business 
with  the  Standard  and  the  Petit  Six.  I  don't  like  to 


240  BURNED    BRIDGES 

let  it  go  altogether.  I  shall  have  to  devote  all  my  time 
to  the  ship  plant.  That  looms  biggest  on  the  horizon. 
But  I  want  to  hold  these  agencies  as  an  anchor 
to  windward.  You  could  run  both  places  without  either 
suffering,  I'm  confident.  I'll  make  you  a  good  propo 
sition." 

Thompson  reflected  a  minute. 

"What  is  your  proposition?"  he  asked  at  length. 
'*  I  daresay  I  could  handle  it.  But  I  can't  commit 
myself  offhand." 

"  Of  course  not,"  Tommy  agreed.  "  You  can  go 
over  my  books  from  the  beginning,  and  see  for  yourself 
what  the  business  amounts  to.  I'd  be  willing  to  allow 
you  seventy-five  per  cent,  of  the  net.  Based  on  last 
year's  business  you  should  clear  twelve  thousand  per 
annum.  Sales  are  on  the  up.  You  might  double  that. 
I  would  hold  an  option  of  taking  over  the  business  on 
ninety  days'  notice." 

"It  sounds  all  right,"  Thompson  admitted.  "I'll 
look  into  it." 

"  I  want  quick  action,"  Tommy  declared.  "  Say,  to 
morrow  you  arrange  for  some  certified  accountant  to 
go  over  my  books  and  make  out  a  balance  sheet.  I'll 
pay  his  fee.  I'm  anxious  to  be  free  to  work  on  the 
ship  end." 

"  All  right.  I'll  do  that.  We  can  arrange  the  de 
tails  later  if  I  decide  to  take  you  up,"  Thompson  said. 

Tommy  stretched  his  arms  and  yawned. 

"  By  jove,"  said  he,  "  I'm  going  to  be  the  busiest 
thing  on  wheels  for  awhile.  It's  no  joke  running  a  big 
show." 


THE    FUSE  241 

"  I  didn't  know  you  were  a  shipbuilder,"  Thompson 
commented. 

"  I'm  not,"  Tommy  admitted,  stifling  another  yawn. 
"  But  I  can  hire  'em  —  both  brains  and  labor.  The 
main  thing  is  I've  got  the  contracts.  That's  the  chief 
item  in  this  war  business.  The  rest  is  chiefly  a  matter 
of  business  judgment.  It's  something  of  a  jump,  I'll 
admit,  but  I  can  negotiate  it,  all  right." 

"  As  a  matter  of  fact,"  he  continued  presently,  and 
with  a  highly  self-satisfied  note  in  his  voice,  "  apart 
from  the  executive  work  it's  what  the  Americans  call  a 
lead-pipe  cinch.  We  can't  lose.  I've  been  fishing  for 
this  quite  a  while,  and  I  put  it  over  by  getting  in  touch 
with  the  right  people.  It's  wonderful  what  you  can 
do  in  the  proper  quarter.  The  Vancouver  Construc 
tion  Company  consists  of  Joe  Hedley  and  myself.  Joe 
is  a  very  clever  chap.  Has  influential  people,  too.  We 
have  contracts  with  the  I.  M.  B.  calling  for  ten  schoon 
ers  estimated  to  cost  three  hundred  thousand  dollars 
per.  We  finance  the  construction,  but  we  don't  really 
risk  a  penny.  The  contracts  are  on  a  basis  of  cost, 
plus  ten  per  cent.  You  see?  If  we  go  above  or  under 
the  estimate  it  doesn't  matter  much.  Our  profit  is 
fixed.  The  main  consideration  is  speed.  The  only 
thing  we  can  be  penalized  for  is  failure  to  launch  and 
deliver  within  specified  dates." 

Thompson  did  a  rough  bit  of  mental  figuring. 

"  I  should  say  it  was  a  cinch,"  he  said  dryly.  "  No 
body  can  accuse  you  of  profiteering.  Yet  your  under 
taking  is  both  patriotic  and  profitable.  I  suppose  you 
had  no  trouble  financing  a  thing  like  that?  " 


242  BURNED    BRIDGES 

"  I  should  say  not.  The  banks,"  Tommy  replied 
with  cynical  emphasis,  "  would  fall  over  themselves  to 
get  their  finger  in  our  pie.  But  they  won't.  Hedley 
and  I  have  some  money.  Sam  Carr  is  letting  us  have 
fifty  thousand  dollars  at  seven  per  cent.  No  bank  is 
going  to  charge  like  the  Old  Guard  at  Waterloo  on 
overdrafts  and  advances  —  and  dictate  to  us  besides. 
I'm  too  wise  for  that.  I'm  not  in  the  game  for  my 
health.  I  see  a  big  lump  of  money,  and  I'm  after  it." 

"  I  suppose  we  all  are,"  Thompson  reflected  absently. 

"  Certainly,"  Tommy  responded  promptly.  "  And 
we'd  be  suckers  if  we  weren't." 

He  took  a  puff  or  two  at  his  cigar  and  rose. 

"  Run  over  to  the  plant  on  the  North  Shore  with 
me  to-morrow  if  you  have  the  time.  We'll  give  it  the 
once  over,  and  take  a  look  at  the  Wallace  yard  too. 
They're  starting  on  steel  tramps  there  now.  I'm  going 
over  about  two  o'clock.  Will  you?  " 

"  Sure.     I'll  take  time,"  Thompson  agreed. 

"  Come  down  to  MacFee's  wharf  and  go  over  with 
me  on  the  Alert"  Tommy  went  on.  "  That's  the  quick 
est  and  easiest  way  to  cross  the  Inlet.  Two  o'clock. 
Well,  I'm  off  to  bed.  Good  night,  old  man." 

"  Good  night." 

The  hall  door  clicked  behind  Ashe.  Thompson  sat 
deep  in  thought  for  a  long  time.  Then  he  fished  a  note 
pad  out  of  a  drawer  and  began  pencilling  figures. 

Ten  times  three  hundred  thousand  was  three  million. 
Ten  per  cent,  on  three  million  was  three  hundred  thou 
sand  dollars.  And  no  chance  to  lose.  The  ten  per 
cent,  on  construction  cost  was  guaranteed  by  the  Im- 


THE    FUSE  243 

perial  Munitions  Board,  behind  which  stood  the  British 
Empire. 

Didn't  Tommy  say  the  ten  schooners  were  to  be  com 
pleted  in  eight  months?  Then  in  eight  months  Tommy 
Ashe  was  going  to  be  approximately  one  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand  dollars  richer. 

Thompson  wondered  if  that  was  why  Sam  Carr 
looked  at  Tommy  with  that  ambiguous  expression  when 
Tommy  was  chanting  his  work  or  fight  philosophy. 
Carr  knew  the  ins  and  outs  of  the  deal  if  he  were  loaning 
money  on  it. 

And  Thompson  did  not  like  to  think  he  had  read 
Carr's  look  aright,  because  he  was  uncomfortably  aware 
that  he,  Wes  Thompson,  was  following  pretty  much  in 
Ashe's  footsteps,  only  on  a  smaller  scale. 

He  tore  the  figured  sheet  into  little  strips,  and  went 
to  bed. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

AND   THE   MATCH   THAT   LIT   THE   FUSE 

AT  a  minute  or  two  of  ten  the  next  morning  Thomp 
son  stopped  his  car  before  the  Canadian  Bank  of  Com 
merce.  The  bolt-studded  doors  were  still  closed,  and 
so  he  kept  his  seat  behind  the  steering  column,  glancing 
idly  along  Hastings  at  the  traffic  that  flowed  about  the 
gray  stone  pile  of  the  post-office,  while  he  waited  the 
bank's  opening  for  business. 

A  tall  young  man,  a  bit  paler-faced  perhaps  than  a 
normal  young  fellow  should  be,  but  otherwise  a  fine- 
looking  specimen  of  manhood,  sauntered  slowly  around 
the  corner  of  the  bank,  and  came  to  a  stop  on  the  curb 
just  abreast  the  fore  end  of  Thompson's  motor.  He 
took  out  a  cigarette  and  lighted  it  with  slow,  deliberate 
motions.  And  as  he  stood  there,  gazing  with  a  detached 
impersonal  air  at  the  front  of  the  Summit  roadster, 
there  approached  him  a  recruiting  sergeant. 

"  How  about  joining  up  this  morning?  "  he  inquired 
briskly. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  the  young  man  responded  cas 
ually.  "  I  hadn't  thought  about  it." 

"  Every  man  should  be  thinking  about  it,"  the  ser 
geant  declared.  "  The  army  needs  men.  Now  a  well- 


AND    MATCH    THAT    LIT    FUSE  245 

set-up  young  fellow  like  you  would  get  on  capitally  at 
soldiering.  It's  a  great  b'fe.  When  we  get  the  Ger 
mans  whipped  every  man  will  be  proud  to  say  he  had  a 
hand  in  it.  If  a  man  struck  you  you  wouldn't  stand 
back  and  let  some  other  fellow  do  your  fighting  for  you, 
now  would  you?  More  than  that,  between  you  and  me, 
it  won't  be  long  before  an  able-bodied  man  can't  walk 
these  streets  in  civvies,  without  the  girls  hooting  him. 
It's  a  man's  duty  to  get  into  this  war.  Better  walk 
along  with  me  to  headquarters  and  sign  on." 

The  young  man  gazed  across  the  street  with  the  same 
immobility  of  expression. 

"  What's  the  inducement?  "  he  asked  presently. 

The  sergeant,  taking  his  cue  from  this,  launched  forth 
upon  a  glowing  description  of  army  life,  the  pay,  the 
glory,  the  manifold  advantages  that  would  certainly 
accrue.  He  painted  a  rosy  picture,  a  gallant  picture. 
One  gathered  from  his  talk  that  a  private  in  khaki  was 
greater  than  a  captain  of  industry  in  civilian  clothes. 
He  dwelt  upon  the  brotherhood,  the  democracy  of  arms. 
He  spilled  forth  a  lot  of  the  buncombe  that  is  swal 
lowed  by  those  who  do  not  know  from  bitter  experience 
that  war,  at  best,  is  a  ghastly  job  in  its  modern  phases, 
a  thing  that  the  common  man  may  be  constrained  to 
undertake  if  need  arises,  but  which  brings  him  little 
pleasure  and  less  glory  —  beyond  the  consciousness  that 
he  has  played  his  part  as  a  man  should. 

The  young  man  heard  the  recruiting  sergeant  to  an 
end.  And  when  that  worthy  had  finished  he  found 
fixed  steadily  upon  him  a  pair  of  coldly  speculative 
gray-green  eyes. 


246  BURNED    BRIDGES 

"  How  long  have  you  been  in  the  army?  "  he  asked. 

"  About  eighteen  months,"  the  sergeant  stated. 

"  Have  you  been  over  there?  " 

"  No,"  the  sergeant  admitted.  "  I  expect  to  go 
soon,  but  for  the  present  I'm  detailed  to  recruiting." 

The  young  man  had  a  flower  in  the  lapel  of  his  coat. 
He  removed  it,  the  flower,  and  thrust  the  lapel  in  the 
sergeant's  face.  The  flower  had  concealed  a  bronze 
button. 

"  I've  been  over  there,"  the  young  man  said  calmly. 
"  There's  my  button,  and  my  discharge  is  in  my  pocket 
—  with  the  names  of  places  on  it  that  you'll  likely  never 
see.  I  was  in  the  Princess  Pats  —  you  know  what  hap 
pened  to  the  Pats.  You  have  hinted  I  was  a  slacker, 
that  every  man  not  in  uniform  is  a  slacker.  Let  me 
tell  you  something.  I  know  your  gabby  kind.  The 
country's  full  of  such  as  you.  So's  England.  The 
war's  gone  two  years  and  you're  still  here,  going  around 
telling  other  men  to  go  to  the  front.  Go  there  your 
self,  and  get  a  taste  of  it.  When  you've  put  in  four 
teen  months  in  hell  like  I  did,  you  won't  go  around 
peddling  the  brand  of  hot  air  you've  shot  into  me,  just 
now." 

"  I  didn't  know  you  were  a  returned  man,"  the  ser 
geant  said  placatingly.  A  pointed  barb  of  resentment 
had  crept  into  the  other's  tone  as  he  spoke. 

"  Well,  I  am,"  the  other  snapped.  "  And  I'd  advise 
you  to  get  a  new  line  of  talk.  Don't  talk  to  me,  any 
way.  Beat  it.  I've  done  my  bit." 

The  sergeant  moved  on  without  another  word,  am 
the  other  man  likewise  went  his  way,  with  just  the  mer 


AND    MATCH  _THAT    LIT    FUSE  247 

est  suggestion  of  a  limp.  And  simultaneously  the  great 
doors  of  the  bank  swung  open.  Thompson  looked  first 
after  one  man  then  after  the  other,  and  passed  into  the 
bank  with  a  thoughtful  look  on  his  face. 

He  finished  his  business  there.  Other  things  occupied 
his  attention  until  noon.  He  lunched.  After  that  he 
drove  to  Coal  Harbor  where  the  yachts  lie  and  motor 
boats  find  mooring,  and  having  a  little  time  to  spare 
before  Tommy's  arrival,  walked  about  the  slips  looking 
over  the  pleasure  craft  berthed  thereat.  Boats  ap 
pealed  to  Thompson.  He  had  taken  some  pleasant 
cruises  with  friends  along  the  coast.  Some  day  he 
intended  to  have  a  cruising  launch.  Tommy  had 
already  attained  that  distinction.  He  owned  a  trim 
forty-footer,  the  Alert.  Thompson's  wanderings 
presently  brought  him  to  this  packet. 

A  man  sat  under  the  awning  over  the  after  deck. 
Thompson  recognized  in  him  the  same  individual  upon 
whom  the  recruiting  sergeant's  eloquence  had  been 
wasted  that  morning.  He  was  in  clean  overalls,  a  sea 
man's  peaked  cap  on  his  head.  Thompson  had  felt  an 
impulse  to  speak  to  the  man  that  morning.  If  any 
legitimate  excuse  had  offered  he  would  have  done  so. 
To  find  the  man  apparently  at  home  on  the  boat  in  which 
he  himself  was  taking  brief  passage  was  a  coincidence  of 
which  Thompson  proceeded  to  take  immediate  advan 
tage.  He  climbed  into  the  cockpit.  The  man  looked 
at  him  questioningly. 

"  I'm  going  across  the  Inlet  with  Mr.  Ashe,"  Thomp 
son  explained.  "  Are  you  on  the  Alert?  " 

"  Engineer,  skipper,  and  bo'sun  too,"  the  man  re- 


248  BURNED    BRIDGES 

sponded  whimsically.     "  Cook,  captain,  and  the  whole 
damn  crew." 

They  fell  into  talk.  The  man  was  intelligent,  but 
there  was  a  queer  abstraction  sometimes  in  his  manner. 
Once  the  motor  of  a  near-by  craft  fired  with  a  staccato 
roar,  and  he  jumped  violently.  He  looked  at  Thomp 
son  unsmiling. 

"  I'm  pretty  jumpy  yet,"  he  said  —  but  he  did  not 
explain  why.  He  did  not  say  he  had  been  overseas. 
He  did  not  mention  the  war.  He  talked  of  the  coast, 
and  timber,  and  fishing,  and  the  adjacent  islands,  with 
all  of  which  he  seemed  to  be  fairly  familiar. 

"  I  heard  that  recruiting  sergeant  tackle  you  this 
morning,"  Thompson  said  at  last.  "  You  were  stand 
ing  almost  beside  my  machine.  What  was  it  like  over 
there?  " 

"  What  was  it  like?  "  the  man  repeated.  He  shook 
his  head.  "  That's  a  big  order.  I  couldn't  tell  you 
in  six  months.  It  wasn't  nice." 

He  seemed  to  reflect  a  second  or  two. 

"  I  suppose  some  one  has  to  do  it.  It  has  to  be  done. 
But  it's  a  tough  game.  You  don't  know  where  you're 
going  nor  what  you're  up  against  most  of  the  time. 
The  racket  gets  a  man,  as  well  as  seeing  fellows  you 
know  getting  bumped  off  now  and  then.  Some  of  the 
boys  get  hardened  to  it.  I  never  did.  I  try  to  forget 
it  now,  mostly.  But  I  dream  things  sometimes,  and  any 
sudden  noise  makes  me  jump.  A  fellow  had  better 
finish  over  there  than  come  home  crippled.  I'm  lucky 
to  hold  down  a  job  like  this,  lucky  that  I  happen  to 
know  gas  engines  r.nd  boats.  I  look  all  right,  but  I'm 


AND    MATCH    THAT    LIT    FUSE  249 

not  much  good.  All  chewed  up  with  shrapnel.  And 
my  nerve's  gone.  I  wouldn't  have  got  my  discharge  if 
they  could  have  used  me  any  more.  Aw,  hell,  if  you 
haven't  been  in  it  you  can't  imagine  what  it's  like.  I 
couldn't  tell  you." 

"  Tell  me  one  thing,"  Thompson  asked  quickly, 
spurred  by  an  impulse  for  light  upon  certain  matters 
which  had  troubled  him.  He  wanted  the  word  of  an 
eye-witness.  "  Did  you  ever  see,  personally,  any  of 
those  atrocities  that  have  been  laid  to  the  Germans  in 
Belgium?  " 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  the  man  replied.  "  The  papers 
have  printed  a  lot  of  stuff.  Mind  you,  over  there  you 
hear  about  a  lot  of  things  you  never  see.  The  only 
thing  7  saw  was  children  with  their  hands  hacked  off 
at  the  wrist." 

"  Good  God,"  Thompson  uttered.  "  You  actually 
saw  that  with  your  own  eyes." 

"  Sure,"  the  man  responded.  "  Nine  of  'em  in  one 
village. 

"  Why,  in  the  name  of  God,  would  men  do  such  a 
thing?  "  Thompson  demanded.  "  Was  any  reason  ever 
given?  " 

"  No.  I  suppose  they  were  drunk  or  something. 
Fritz  was  pretty  bad  in  spots,  all  right.  Maybe  they 
just  wanted  to  put  the  fear  of  God  in  their  hearts.  A 
pal  of  mine  in  Flanders  told  me  of  a  woman  —  in  a  place 
they  took  by  a  night  raid  —  she  had  her  breast  slashed 
open.  She  said  a  Boche  officer  did  it  with  his  sword." 

The  man  spoke  of  these  things  in  a  detached,  imper 
sonal  manner,  as  one  who  states  commonplace  facts. 


250  BURNED    BRIDGES 

He  had  not  particularly  desired  to  speak  of  them.  For 
him  those  gruesome  incidents  of  war  and  invasion  held 
no  special  horror.  They  might  have  rested  heavily 
enough  on  his  mind  once.  But  he  had  come  apparently 
to  accept  them  as  the  grim  collateral  of  war,  without 
reacting  emotionally  to  their  terrible  significance.  And 
when  Thompson  ceased  to  question  him  he  ceased  to 
talk. 

But  in  Thompson  these  calmly  recounted  horrors 
worked  profound  distress.  His  imagination  became 
immediately  shot  with  sinister  pictures.  All  these  things 
which  he  had  read  and  doubted,  which  had  left  him 
unmoved,  now  took  on  a  terrible  reality.  He  could  see 
these  things  about  which  the  returned  soldier  spoke, 
and  seeing  them  believed.  Believing,  there  rose  within 
him  a  protest  that  choked  him  with  its  force  as  he  sat 
in  the  cockpit  beside  this  veteran  of  Flanders. 

The  man  had  fallen  silent,  staring  into  the  green 
depths  overside.  Thompson  sat  silent  beside  him.  But 
there  was  in  Thompson  none  of  the  other's  passivity. 
Unlike  the  returned  soldier,  who  had  seen  blood  and 
death  until  he  was  surfeited  with  it,  until  he  wanted 
nothing  but  peace  and  quietness,  and  a  chance  to  rest 
his  shrapnel-torn  body  and  shell-shocked  nerves, 
Thompson  quivered  with  a  swift,  hot  desire  to  kill  and 
destroy,  to  inflict  vengeance.  He  burned  for  reprisal 
For  a  passionate  moment  he  felt  as  if  he  could  rem 
with  his  bare  hands  a  man  or  men  who  could  wantonb 
mutilate  women  and  children.  He  could  find  no  fi 
name  for  such  deeds. 

And,  responding  so  surely  to  that  unexpected  stim 


AND    MATCH    THAT    LIT    FUSE  251 

ulus,  he  had  no  stomach  for  crossing  the  Inlet  as 
Tommy's  guest,  to  view  the  scene  of  Tommy's  industrial 
triumph-to-be.  He  wasn't  interested  in  that  now. 

Sitting  under  the  awning,  brooding  over  these  things, 
he  remembered  how  Sophie  Carr  had  reacted  to  the 
story  of  the  Belgian  refugee  that  afternoon  a  year  and 
a  half  ago.  He  understood  at  last.  He  divined  how 
Sophie  felt  that  day.  And  he  had  blandly  discounted 
those  things.  He  had  gone  about  his  individual  con 
cerns  insulated  against  any  call  to  right  wrongs,  to 
fight  oppression,  to  abolish  that  terror  which  loomed 
over  Europe  —  and  which  might  very  well  lay  its  sinis 
ter  hand  on  America,  if  the  Germans  were  capable  of 
these  things,  and  if  the  German's  military  power  pre 
vailed  over  France  and  England.  When  he  envisaged 
Canada  as  another  Belgium  his  teeth  came  together 
with  a  little  click. 

He  clambered  out  of  the  Alert's  cockpit  to  the  float. 

"  Tell  Mr.  Ashe  I  changed  my  mind  about  going 
over  with  him,"  he  said  abruptly,  and  walked  off  the 
float,  up  the  sloping  bank  to  the  street,  got  in  his  car 
and  drove  away. 

As  he  drove  he  felt  that  he  had  failed  to  keep  faith 
with  something  or  other.  He  felt  bewildered.  Those 
little  children,  shorn  of  their  hands  —  so  that  they  could 
never  lift  a  sword  against  Germany  —  cried  aloud  to 
him.  They  held  up  their  bloody  stumps  for  him  to  see. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

AND  THE  BOMB  THE  FUSE  FIRED 

IT  took  Thompson  approximately  forty-eight  hours 
to  arrange  his  affairs.  He  managed  things  with  a  pre 
cipitancy  that  would  have  shocked  a  sound,  practical 
business  man,  for  he  put  out  no  anchors  to  windward 
nor  troubled  himself  about  the  future.  He  paid  his 
bills,  transferred  the  Summit  agency  to  his  head  sales 
man  —  who  had  amassed  sufficient  capital  to  purchase 
the  stock  of  cars  and  parts  at  cost.  Thus,  having  de 
liberately  sacrificed  a  number  of  sound  assets  for  the 
sake  of  being  free  of  them  without  delay,  Thompson 
found  himself  upon  the  morning  of  the  third  day  with 
out  a  tie  to  bind  him  to  Vancouver,  and  a  cash  balance 
of  twenty  thousand  dollars  to  his  credit  in  the  bank. 

He  did  not  know  how,  or  in  what  capacity  he  was 
going  to  the  front,  but  he  was  going,  and  the  manner 
of  his  going  did  not  concern  him  greatly.  It  mat 
tered  little  how  he  went,  so  long  as  he  went  in  the 
service  of  his  country.  A  little  of  his  haste  was  born 
of  the  sudden  realization  that  he  had  a  country  which 
needed  his  services  —  and  that  he  desired  to  serve.  It 
had  passed  an  emotional  phase  with  him.  He  saw  it 
very  clearly  as  a  duty.  He  did  not  foresee  or  antici 
pate  either  pleasure  or  glory  in  the  undertaking.  He 


AND  THE  BOMB  THE  FUSE  FIRED      253 

had  no  illusions  about  war.  It  was  quite  on  the  cards 
that  he  might  never  come  back.  But  he  had  to  go. 

So  then  he  had  only  to  determine  how  he  should  go. 

That  problem,  which  was  less  a  problem  than  a  matter 
of  making  choice,  was  solved  that  very  day  at  luncheon. 
As  he  sat  at  a  table  in  a  down-town  cafe  there  came  to 
him  a  figure  in  khaki,  wearing  a  short,  close-fitting 
jacket  with  an  odd  emblem  on  the  left  sleeve  —  a  young 
fellow  who  hailed  Thompson  with  a  hearty  grip  and  a 
friendly  grin.  He  sat  himself  in  a  chair  vis-a-vis,  lay 
ing  his  funny,  wedge-shaped  cap  on  the  table. 

"  I've  been  wondering  what  had  become  of  you,  Jim- 
mie,"  Thompson  said.  "  I  see  now.  Where  have  you 
been  keeping  yourself?  " 

"  East,"  the  other  returned  tersely.  "  Training. 
Got  my  wings.  Off  to  England  day  after  to-morrow. 
How's  everything  with  you,  these  days?  " 

Thompson  looked  his  man  over  thoroughly.  Jimmie 
Wells  was  the  youngest  of  the  four  sons  of  a  wealthy 
man.  The  other  three  were  at  the  front,  one  of  them 
already  taking  his  long  rest  under  a  white,  wooden 
cross  somewhere  in  France.  Jimmie  looked  brown  and 
fit.  A  momentary  pang  of  regret  stung  Thompson. 
He  wished  he  too  were  standing  in  uniform,  ready  for 
overseas. 

"  I've  just  wound  up  my  business,"  he  said.  "  I'm 
going  to  the  front  myself,  Jimmie." 

"Good,"  Wells  approved.     "What  branch?" 

"  I  don't  know  yet,"  Thompson  replied.  "  I  made 
up  my  mind  in  a  hurry.  I'm  just  setting  out  to  find 
where  I'll  fit  in  best." 


254  BURNED    BRIDGES 

"  Why  don't  you  try  aviation  ?  "  Jimmie  Wells  sug 
gested.  "  You  ought  to  make  good  in  that.  There  are 
a  lot  of  good  fellows  flying.  If  you  want  action,  the 
R.  F.  C.  is  the  sportiest  lot  of  all." 

"I  might.  I  didn't  think  of  that,"  Thompson  re 
turned  slowly.  "  Yes,  I  believe  I  could  fly." 

"  If  you  can  fly  like  you  drive,  you'll  be  the  goods," 
Jimmie  asserted  cheerfully.  "  Tell  you  what,  Thomp 
son.  Come  on  around  to  the  Flying  Corps  headquarters 
with  me.  I  know  a  fellow  there  rather  well,  and  I'll 
introduce  you.  Not  that  that  will  get  you  anything, 
only  Holmes  will  give  you  a  lot  of  unofficial  informa 
tion." 

Thompson  rose  from  the  table. 

"  Lead  me  to  it,"  said  he.     "  I'm  your  man." 

Getting  accepted  as  a  cadet  in  the  Royal  Flying 
Corps  was  not  so  simple  a  matter  as  enlisting  in  the 
infantry.  The  requirements  were  infinitely  more  rigid. 
The  R.  F.  C.  took  only  the  cream  of  the  country's  man 
hood.  They  told  Thompson  his  age  was  against  him  — 
and  he  was  only  twenty-eight.  It  was  true.  Ninety 
per  cent,  of  the  winged  men  were  five  years  younger. 
But  he  passed  all  their  tests  by  grace  of  a  magnificent 
body  that  housed  an  active  brain  and  steady  nerves. 

All  this  did  not  transpire  overnight.  It  took  days. 
He  told  no  one  of  his  plans  in  the  meantime,  no  one  but 
Tommy  Ashe,  who  was  a  trifle  disappointed  when 
Thompson  declined  to  handle  Tommy's  exceedingly 
profitable  motor  business.  Tommy  seemed  hurt.  To 
make  it  clear  that  he  had  a  vital  reason,  Thompson 
explained  tersely. 


AND  THE  BOMB  THE  FUSE  FIRED      255 

"  I  can't  do  it  because  I'm  going  to  the  front." 

"Eh?     What  the  devil!" 

Tommy  looked  all  the  astonishment  his  tone  ex 
pressed. 

"  Well,  what  the  devil?  "  Thompson  returned  tartly. 
"  Is  there  anything  strange  about  that  ?  A  good  many 
men  have  gone.  A  good  many  more  will  have  to  go 
before  this  thing  is  settled.  Why  not?  " 

"  Oh,  if  a  man  feels  that  he  should"  Tommy  began. 
He  seemed  at  a  loss  for  words,  and  ended  lamely: 
"  There's  plenty  of  cannon-fodder  in  the  country  with 
out  men  of  your  caliber  wasting  themselves  in  the 
trenches.  You  haven't  the  military  training  nor  the 
pull  to  get  a  commission." 

Thompson's  lips  opened  to  retort  with  a  sentence  he 
knew  would  sting  like  a  whiplash.  But  he  thought 
better  of  it.  He  would  not  try  plucking  the  mote  out 
of  another  man's  eye,  when  he  had  so  recently  got  clear 
of  the  beam  in  his  own. 

Tommy  did  not  tarry  long  after  that.  He  wished 
Thompson  good  luck,  but  he  left  behind  him  the  im 
pression  that  he  privately  considered  it  a  poor  move. 
Thompson  was  willing  to  concede  that  from  a  purely 
material  standpoint  it  was  a  poor  move.  But  he  could 
no  longer  adopt  the  purely  materialistic  view.  It  had 
suddenly  become  clear  to  him  that  he  must  go  —  and 
•why  he  must  go.  Just  as  the  citizen  whose  house  gets 
on  fire  knows  beyond  peradventure  that  he  must  quench 
the  flames  if  it  lies  in  his  power. 

The  Royal  Flying  Corps  arrives  at  its  ends  slowly. 
Perhaps  not  too  slowly  for  the  niceness  of  choice  that 


256  BURNED    BRIDGES 

must  be  made.  Presently  there  came  to  Wesley  Thomp 
son  a  brief  order  to  report  at  a  training  camp  in 
Eastern  Canada. 

When  he  held  this  paper  in  his  hand  and  knew  himself 
committed  irrevocably  to  the  greatest  game  of  all,  he 
felt  a  queer,  inner  glow,  a  quiet  satisfaction  such  as 
must  come  to  a  man  who  succeeds  in  some  high  enter 
prise.  Thompson  felt  this  in  spite  of  desperate  facts. 
He  had  no  illusions  as  to  what  he  had  set  about.  He 
knew  very  well  that  in  the  R.  F.  C.  it  was  a  short  life 
and  not  always  a  merry  one.  Of  course  a  man  might 
be  lucky.  He  might  survive  by  superior  skill.  In  any 
case  it  had  to  be  done. 

But  he  was  moved  likewise  by  a  strange  loneliness, 
and  with  his  orders  in  his  hand  he  understood  at  last 
the  source  of  that  peculiar  regret  which  latterly  had 
assailed  him  in  stray  moments.  There  were  a  few 
friends  to  bid  good-by.  And  chief,  if  she  came  last  on 
his  round  of  calls  that  last  day,  was  Sophie  Carr. 

He  found  Sophie  at  home  about  four  in  the  after 
noon,  sitting  in  the  big  living  room,  making  Red  Cross 
bandages.  She  did  not  stop  her  work  when  he  was 
ushered  in.  Beside  her  on  a  table  stood  a  flat  box  and 
in  this  from  time  to  time  she  put  a  finished  roll.  It 
occurred  to  Thompson  that  sometime  one  of  those  white 
bandages  fabricated  by  her  hands  might  be  used  on 
him. 

He  smiled  a  bit  sardonically,  for  the  thought  arose 
also  that  in  the  Flying  Corps  the  man  who  lost  in  aerial 
combat  needed  little  besides  a  coffin  —  and  sometimes 
not  even  that. 


AND  THE  BOMB  THE  FUSE  FIRED      257 

Sophie  looked  at  him  almost  somberly. 

"  I'm  working,  don't  you  see?  "  she  said  curtly. 

He  had  never  seen  her  in  quite  that  unapproachable 
mood.  He  wanted  her  to  forget  the  Red  Cross  and 
the  war  for  a  little  while,  to  look  and  speak  with  the  old 
lightness.  He  wasn't  a  sentimental  man,  but  he  did 
want  to  go  away  with  a  picture  of  her  smiling.  He 
had  not  told  her  he  was  going.  He  did  not  mean  to  tell 
her  till  he  was  leaving,  and  then  only  to  say  casually: 
"  Well,  good-by.  I'm  off  for  a  training-camp  to 
night."  He  had  always  suspected  there  was  something 
of  the  Spartan  in  Sophie  Carr's  make-up.  Even  if  he 
had  not  divined  that,  he  had  no  intention  of  making  a 
fuss  about  his  going,  of  trying  to  pose  as  a  hero.  But 
he  was  a  normal  man,  and  he  wanted  his  last  recollec 
tion  of  her  —  if  it  should  be  his  last  —  to  be  a  pleasant 
one. 

And  Sophie  was  looking  at  him  now,  fixedly,  a  frosty 
gleam  in  her  gray  eyes.  She  looked  a  moment,  and  her 
breast  heaved.  She  swept  the  work  off  her  lap  with  a 
sudden,  swift  gesture. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you  —  and  dozens  of  men 
like  you  that  I  know  ?  "  she  demanded  in  a  choked  voice. 
"  You  stay  at  home  living  easy  and  getting  rich  in  the 
security  that  other  men  are  buying  with  their  blood  and 
their  lives,  over  there.  Fighting  against  odds  and  dy 
ing  like  dogs  in  a  ditch  so  that  we  can  live  here  in  peace 
and  comfort.  You  don't  even  do  anything  useful  here. 
There  doesn't  seem  to  be  anything  that  can  make  you 
work  or  fight.  They  can  sink  passenger  ships  and 
bomb  undefended  towns  and  shell  hospitals,  and  you 


258  BURNED    BRIDGES 

don't  seem  to  resent  it.  I've  heard  you  prate  about 
service  —  when  you  thought  you  walked  with  God  and 
had  a  mission  from  God  to  show  other  men  the  way. 
Why  don't  you  serve  now?  What  is  the  matter  with 
you?  Is  your  skin  so  precious?  If  you  can't  fight, 
can't  you  make  ammunition  or  help  to  build  ships  ?  Are 
you  a  man,  or  just  a  rabbit?  I  wish  to  God  /  were  a 
man." 

Thompson  rose  to  his  feet.  The  lash  of  her  tongue 
had  not  lost  its  power  to  sting  since  those  far-off  Lone 
Moose  days.  Yet,  though  it  stabbed  like  a  spear,  he 
was  more  conscious  of  a  passionate  craving  to  gather 
her  into  his  arms  than  of  anger  and  resentment.  There 
were  tears  in  Sophie's  eyes  —  but  there  was  no  softness 
in  her  tone.  Her  red  lips  curled  as  Thompson  looked  at 
her  in  dazed  silence.  There  did  not  seem  to  be  any 
thing  he  could  say  —  not  with  Sophie  looking  at  him 
like  that. 

**  If  you  feel  that  way  about  it  — " 

He  broke  off  in  the  middle  of  the  muttered  sentence, 
turned  on  his  heel,  walked  out  of  the  room.  And  he 
went  down  the  street  suffering  from  a  species  of  shock, 
saying  desperately  to  himself  that  it  did  not  matter, 
nothing  mattered. 

But  he  knew  that  was  a  lie,  a  lie  he  told  himself  to 
keep  his  soul  from  growing  sick. 

He  went  back  to  his  rooms  for  the  last  time,  and  tried 
with  pen  and  paper  to  set  down  some  justification  of 
himself  for  Sophie's  eyes.  But  he  could  not  satisfy 
himself  with  that.  His  pride  revolted  against  it.  Why 
should  he  plead?  Or  rather,  what  was  the  use  of  plead- 


AND  THE  BOMB  THE  FUSE  FIRED      259 

ing?  Why  should  he  explain?  He  had  a  case  for  the 
defence,  but  defence  avails  nothing  after  sentence  has 
been  pronounced.  He  had  waited  too  long.  He  had 
been  tried  and  found  wanting. 

He  tore  the  letter  into  strips,  and  having  sent  his 
things  to  the  station  long  before,  put  on  his  hat  now 
and  walked  slowly  there  himself,  for  it  lacked  but  an 
hour  of  train-time. 

At  the  corner  of  Fender  and  Hastings  he  met  Sam 
Carr. 

"  Welcome,  youthful  stranger,"  Carr  greeted  heart 
ily.  "  I  haven't  seen  you  for  a  long  time.  Walk  down 
to  the  Strand  with  me  and  have  a  drink.  I've  been 
looking  over  the  Vancouver  Construction  Company's 
yard,  and  it's  a  very  dry  place." 

Thompson  assented.  He  had  time  and  it  was  on  his 
way.  He  reacted  willingly  to  the  suggestion.  He 
needed  something  to  revive  his  spirit,  but  he  had  not 
thought  of  the  stimulus  of  John  Barleycorn  until  Carr 
spoke. 

In  the  Strand  bar  he  poured  himself  half  a  glass  of 
Scotch  whisky.  Carr  regarded  him  meditatively  over 
port  wine. 

"  That's  the  first  time  I  ever  saw  you  touch  the  hard 
stuff,"  he  observed. 

"  It  will  probably  be  the  last,"  Thompson  replied. 

"Why?" 

"  I'm  off,"  Thompson  explained.  "  I  have  sold  out 
my  business  and  have  been  accepted  for  the  Royal  Fly 
ing  Corps.  I'm  taking  the  train  at  six  to  report  at 
Eastern  headquarters." 


260  BURNED    BRIDGES 

Carr  fingered  the  stem  of  his  empty  glass  a  second. 
"  I  hate  to  see  you  go,  and  still  I'm  glad  you're  going," 
he  said  with  an  odd,  wistful  note  in  his  voice.  "  I'd 
go  too,  Thompson,  if  I  weren't  too  old  to  be  any  use 
over  there." 

"Eh?"  Thompson  looked  at  him  keenly.  "Have 
you  been  revising  your  philosophy  of  life?  " 

"  No.  Merely  bringing  it  up  to  date,"  Carr  replied 
soberly.  "  We  have  what  we  have  in  the  way  of  gov 
ernment,  economic  practice,  principles  of  justice,  mo 
rality  —  so  forth  and  so  on.  I'm  opposed  to  a  lot  of 
it.  Too  much  that's  obsolete.  A  lot  that's  downright 
bad.  But  bad  as  it  is  in  spots,  it  is  not  a  circumstance 
to  what  we  should  have  to  endure  if  the  Germans  win 
this  war.  I  believe  in  my  people  and  my  country.  I 
don't  believe  in  the  German  system  of  dominating  by 
sheer  force  and  planned  terror.  The  militarists  and 
the  market  hunters  have  brought  us  to  this.  But  we 
have  to  destroy  the  bogey  they  have  raised  before  we 
can  deal  with  them.  And  a  man  can't  escape  nation 
alism.  It's  bred  in  us.  What  the  tribe  thinks,  the 
individual  thinks.  This  thing  is  in  the  air.  We  are 
getting  unanimous.  Whether  or  not  we  approve  the 
cause,  we  are  too  proud  to  consider  getting  whipped  in  a 
war  that  was  forced  on  us.  One  way  and  another,  no 
matter  what  we  privately  think  of  our  politicians  and 
industrial  barons  and  our  institutions  generally,  it  is 
becoming  unthinkable  to  the  Anglo-Saxon  that  the  Ger 
man  shall  stalk  rough-shod  over  us.  We  are  beginning 
—  we  common  people  —  to  hate  him  and  his  works. 
Look  at  you  and  me.  We  were  aloof  at  first.  We  are 


AND  THE  BOMB  THE  FUSE  FIRED      261 

intelligent.  We  have  learned  to  saddle  feeling  with 
logic.  We  have  not  been  stampeded  by  military  bands 
and  oratory.  Yet  there  is  something  in  the  air.  I  wish 
I  could  fight.  You  are  going  to  fight.  Not  because 
you  like  fighting,  but  because  you  see  something  to 
fight  for.  And  before  long  those  who  cannot  see  will 
be  very  few.  Isn't  that  about  right?  " 

"  I  think  so,"  Thompson  replied. 

"  There  you  are,"  Carr  went  on.  "  Myself,  I  have 
put  philosophic  consideration  in  abeyance  for  the  time. 
I've  got  primitive  again.  Damn  the  Central  Powers! 
If  I  had  seven  sons  I'd  send  them  all  to  the  front." 

They  had  another  drink. 

"  Did  you  go  and  say  good-by  to  Sophie?  "  Carr 
demanded  suddenly. 

**  I  saw  her,  but  I  don't  think  I  said  good-by," 
Thompson  said  absently.  He  was  thinking  about  Carr's 
surprising  outburst.  He  agreed  precisely  with  what 
the  old  man  said.  But  he  had  not  suspected  the  old 
radical  of  such  intensity.  "  I  didn't  tell  her  I  was 
going." 

"  You  didn't  tell  her,"  Carr  persisted.     "  Why  not  ?  " 

"  For  a  variety  of  reasons."  He  found  it  hard  to 
assume  lightness  with  those  shrewd  old  eyes  searchingly 
upon  him.  "  You  can  tell  her  good-by  for  me.  Well, 
let's  have  a  last  one.  It'll  be  a  good  many  moons  before 
you  and  I  look  over  a  glass  at  each  other  again.  If  I 
don't  come  back  I'll  be  in  honorable  company.  And 
I'll  give  them  hell  while  I  last." 

Carr  walked  with  him  down  to  the  train. 

"  When  the  war  broke  out,"  he  said  to  Thompson  at 


262  BURNED    BRIDGES 

the  coach  steps,  "  if  you  had  proposed  to  go  I  should 
privately  have  considered  you  a  damned  idealistic  fool. 
Now  I  envy  you.  You  will  never  have  to  make  apologies 
to  yourself  for  yourself,  nor  to  your  fellows.  If  I  strike 
a  blow  that  a  free  people  may  remain  free  to  work 
out  their  destiny  in  their  own  fashion,  I  must  do  it  by 
proxy.  I  wish  you  all  the  luck  there  is,  Wes  Thompson. 
I  hope  you  come  back  safe  to  us  again." 

They  shook  hands.  A  voice  warned  all  and  sundry 
that  the  train  was  about  to  leave,  and  over  the  voice 
rose  the  strident  notes  of  a  gong.  Thompson  climbed 
the  steps,  passed  within,  thrust  his  head  through  an 
open  window  as  the  Imperial  Limited  gathered  way. 
His  last  glimpse  of  a  familiar  face  was  of  Carr  standing 
bareheaded,  looking  wistfully  after  the  gliding  coaches. 

The  grandfather  clock  in  the  hall  was  striking  nine 
when  Sam  Carr  came  home.  He  hung  his  hat  on  the 
hall-tree  and  passed  with  rather  unsteady  steps  into 
the  living  room.  He  moved  circumspectly,  with  the 
peculiar  caution  of  the  man  who  knows  that  he  is  intoxi 
cated  and  governs  his  movements  accordingly.  Carr's 
legs  were  very  drunk  and  he  was  aware  of  this,  but  his 
head  was  perfectly  clear.  He  managed  to  negotiate 
passage  to  a  seat  near  his  daughter. 

Sophie  was  sitting  in  a  big  chair,  engulfed  therein, 
one  might  say.  A  reading  lamp  stood  on  the  table  at 
her  elbow.  A  book  lay  in  her  lap.  But  she  was  staring 
at  the  wall  absently,  and  beyond  a  casual  glance  at  her 
father  she  neither  moved  nor  spoke,  nor  gave  any  sign 
of  being  stirred  out  of  this  profound  abstraction. 


AND  THE  BOMB  THE  FUSE  FIRED      263 

Carr  sank  into  his  chair  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"  I  am  just  about  pickled,  I  do  believe,"  he  observed 
to  the  room  at  large. 

"  So  I  see,"  Sophie  commented  impersonally.  "  Is 
there  anything  uncommon  about  that?  I  am  beginning 
to  think  prohibition  will  be  rather  a  blessing  to  you, 
Dad,  when  it  comes." 

"  Huh !  "  Carr  grunted.  "  I  suppose  one  drink  does 
lead  to  another.  But  I  don't  need  to  be  legally  safe 
guarded  yet,  thank  you.  My  bibulosity  is  occasional. 
When  it  becomes  chronic  I  shall  take  to  the  woods." 

"  Sometimes  I  find  myself  wishing  we  had  never  come 
out  of  the  woods,"  Sophie  murmured. 

"What?"  Carr  exclaimed.  Then:  "That's  rich. 
You  with  a  sure  income  beyond  your  needs,  in  your  own 
right,  with  youth  and  health  and  beauty,  with  all  your 
life  before  you,  wishing  to  revert  to  what  you  used  to 
say  was  a  living  burial?  That's  equivalent  to  holding 
that  the  ostrich  philosophy  is  the  true  one  —  what  you 
cannot  see  does  not  exist.  That  ignorance  is  better 
than  knowledge  —  that  —  that  —  Hang  it,  my  dear, 
are  you  going  to  turn  reactionary?  But  that's  a 
woman.  Now  why  should  — " 

"  Oh,  don't  begin  one  of  your  interminable,  hair 
splitting  elucidations,"  Sophie  protested.  "  I  know  it's 
showing  weakness  to  desire  to  run  away  from  trouble. 
I  don't  know  that  I  have  any  trouble  to  run  from.  I'm 
not  sure  I  should  dodge  trouble  if  I  could.  I  was  just 
voicing  a  stray  thought.  We  were  happy  at  Lone 
Moose,  weren't  we,  Dad?  " 

"  After  a  fashion,"  Carr  replied  promptly.     "  As  the 


264  BURNED    BRIDGES 

animal  is  happy  with  a  full  belly  and  a  comfortable 
place  to  sleep.  But  we  both  craved  a  great  deal  more 
than  that  of  life." 

"  And  we  are  not  getting  more,"  Sophie  retorted. 
"  When  you  come  right  down  to  fundamentals  we  eat  a 
greater  variety  of  food,  wear  better  clothes,  live  on 
a  scale  that  by  our  former  standards  is  the  height  of 
luxury.  But  not  one  of  my  dreams  has  come  true. 
And  you  find  solace  in  a  wine  glass  where  you  used  to 
find  it  in  books.  Over  in  Europe  men  are  destroying 
each  other  like  mad  beasts.  At  home,  while  part  of  the 
nation  plays  the  game  square,  there's  another  part  that 
grafts  and  corrupts  and  profiteers  and  slacks  to  no 
end.  It's  a  rotten  world." 

"  By  gad,  you  have  got  the  blue  glasses  on  to-night, 
and  no  mistake,"  Carr  mused.  "  That's  unmitigated 
pessimism,  Sophie.  What  you  need  is  a  vacation.  Let 
somebody  else  run  this  women's  win-the-war  show  for 
awhile,  and  you  take  a  rest.  That's  nerves." 

"  I  can't.  There  is  too  much  to  do,"  Sophie  said 
shortly.  "  I  don't  want  to.  If  I  sat  down  and  folded 
my  hands  these  days  I'd  go  crazy." 

Carr  grunted.  For  a  minute  neither  spoke.  Sophie 
lay  back  in  her  chair,  eyes  half  closed,  fingers  beating 
a  slow  rat-a-tat  on  the  chair-arm. 

"  Have  you  seen  Wes  Thompson  lately?  "  Carr  in 
quired  at  last. 

"  I  saw  him  this  afternoon,"  Sophie  replied. 

"  Did  he  tell  you  he  was  going  overseas  ?  " 

"  No."  Sophie's  interest  seemed  languid,  judged  by 
her  tone. 


AND  THE  BOMB  THE  FUSE  FIRED      265 

"  You  saw  him  this  afternoon,  eh?  "  Carr  drawled. 
"  That's  queer." 

"  What's  queer?  "  Sophie  demanded. 

"  That  he  would  see  you  and  not  tell  you  where  he 
was  off  to,"  Carr  went  on.  "  I  saw  him  away  on  the 
Limited  at  six-o'clock.  He  told  me  to  tell  you  good-by. 
He?s  gone  to  the  front." 

Sophie  sat  upright. 

"  How  could  he  do  that  ?  "  she  said  impatiently.  "  A 
man  can't  get  into  uniform  and  leave  for  France  on  two 
hours'  notice.  He  called  here  about  four.  Don't  be 
absurd." 

"  I  don't  see  anything  absurd  except  your  incredulous 
way  of  taking  it,"  Carr  defended  stoutly.  "  I  tell  you 
he's  gone.  I  saw  him  take  the  train.  Who  said  any 
thing  about  two  hours'  notice?  I  should  imagine  he 
has  been  getting  ready  for  some  time.  You  know  Wes 
Thompson  well  enough  to  know  that  he  doesn't  chatter 
about  what  he's  going  to  do.  He  sold  out  his  business 
two  weeks  ago,  and  has  been  waiting  to  be  passed  in  his 
tests.  He  has  finally  been  accepted  and  ordered  to 
report  East  for  training  in  aviation.  He  joined  the 
Royal  Flying  Corps." 

Carr  did  not  know  that  in  the  circle  of  war  workers 
where  Sophie  moved  so  much  the  R.  F.  C.  was  spoken 
of  as  the  "  Legion  of  Death."  No  one  knew  the  per 
centage  of  casualties  in  that  gallant  service.  Such 
figures  were  never  published.  All  that  these  women 
knew  was  that  their  sons  and  brothers  and  lovers,  clean 
limbed  children  of  the  well-to-do,  joined  the  Flying 
Corps,  and  that  their  lives,  if  glorious,  were  all  too  brief 


266  BURNED    BRIDGES 

once  they  reached  the  Western  front.  Only  the  super 
men,  the  favored  of  God,  survived  a  dozen  aerial  com 
bats.  To  have  a  son  or  a  brother  flying  in  France 
meant  mourning  soon  or  late.  So  they  spoke  some 
times,  in  bitter  pride,  of  their  birdmen  as  the  "  Legion 
of  Death  ",  a  gruesome  phrase  and  apt. 

Carr  knew  the  heavy  casualties  of  aerial  fighting. 
But  he  had  never  seen  a  proud  woman  break  down  be 
fore  the  ominous  cablegram,  he  had  never  seen  a  girl 
sit  dry-eyed  and  ashy-white,  staring  dumbly  at  a  slip 
of  yellow  paper.  And  Sophie  had  —  many  a  time.  To 
her,  a  commission  in  the  Royal  Flying  Corps  had  come 
to  mean  little  short  of  a  death  warrant. 

She  sat  now  staring  blankly  at  her  father. 

"  He  closed  up  his  business  and  joined  the  Flying 
Corps  two  weeks  ago." 

She  repeated  this  stupidly,  as  if  she  found  it  almost 
impossible  to  comprehend. 

"  That's  what  I  said,"  Carr  replied  testily.  "  What 
the  devil  did  you  do  to  him  that  he  didn't  tell  you,  if 
he  was  here  only  two  hours  before  he  left?  Why,  he 
must  have  come  to  say  good-by." 

"What  did  I  do?"  Sophie  whispered.  "My  God, 
how  was  I  to  know  what  I  was  doing?  " 

She  sat  staring  at  her  father.  But  she  was  not  see 
ing  him,  and  Carr  knew  she  did  not  see  him.  Some 
other  vision  filled  those  wide-pupiled  eyes.  Something 
that  she  saw  or  felt  sent  a  shudder  through  her.  Her 
mouth  quivered.  And  suddenly  she  gave  a  little,  stifled 
gasp,  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE    LAST    BRIDGE 

THOMPSON  received  his  preliminary  training  in  a 
camp  not  greatly  distant  from  his  birthplace  and  the 
suburban  Toronto  home  where  the  spinster  aunts  still 
lived.  He  did  not  go  to  see  them  at  first,  for  two  rea 
sons.  Primarily,  because  he  had  written  them  a  full 
and  frank  account  of  himself  when  he  got  out  of  the 
ruck  and  achieved  success  in  San  Francisco.  Their 
reply  had  breathed  an  open  disappointment,  almost  hos 
tility,  at  his  departure  from  the  chosen  path.  They 
made  it  clear  that  in  their  eyes  he  was  a  prodigal  son 
for  whom  there  would  never  be  any  fatted  calf.  Sec 
ondly,  he  did  not  go  because  there  was  seldom  anything 
but  short  leave  for  a  promising  aviator. 

Thompson  speedily  proved  himself  to  belong  in  that 
category.  There  resided  in  him  those  peculiar,  inde 
finable  qualities  imperative  for  mastery  of  the  air. 
Under  able  instruction  he  got  on  fast,  just  as  he  had  got 
on  fast  in  the  Henderson  shops.  And  by  the  time  the 
first  fall  snows  whitened  the  ground,  he  was  ready  for 
England  and  the  finishing  stages  of  aerial  work  ante 
cedent  to  piloting  a  fighting  plane.  He  had  practi 
cally  v/on  his  official  wings. 


268  BURNED    BRIDGES 

With  his  orders  to  report  overseas  he  received  ten 
days'  final  leave.  And  a  sense  of  duty  spurred  him 
to  look  up  the  maiden  aunts,  to  brave  their  dis 
pleasure  for  the  sake  of  knowing  how  they  fared. 
There  was  little  other  use  to  make  of  his  time.  The 
Pacific  Coast  was  too  far  away.  The  only  person  he 
cared  to  see  there  had  no  wish  to  see  him,  he  was  bit 
terly  aware.  And  nearer  at  hand  circumstances  had 
shot  him  clear  out  of  the  orbit  of  all  those  he  had 
known  as  he  grew  to  manhood.  Recalling  them,  he  had 
no  more  in  common  with  them  now  than  any  forthright 
man  of  action  has  in  common  with  narrow  visionaries. 
It  was  not  their  fault,  he  knew.  They  were  creatures 
of  their  environment,  just  as  he  had  been.  But  he  had 
outgrown  all  faith  in  creeds  and  forms  before  a  quick 
ening  sympathy  with  man,  a  clearer  understanding  of 
human  complexities.  And  as  he  recalled  them  his  asso 
ciates  had  been  slaves  to  creed  and  form,  worshippers 
of  the  letter  of  Christianity  while  unconsciously  they 
violated  the  spirit  of  Christ.  Thompson  had  no  wish 
to  renew  those  old  friendships,  not  even  any  curiosity 
about  them.  So  he  passed  them  by  and  went  to  see  his 
aunts,  who  had  fed  and  clothed  him,  to  whom  he  felt  a 
vague  sort  of  allegiance  if  no  particular  affection. 

It  seemed  to  Thompson  like  reliving  a  very  vivid 
sort  of  dream  to  get  off  a  street  car  at  a  certain  corner, 
to  walk  four  blocks  south  and  turn  into  the  yard  before 
a  small  brick  cottage  with  a  leafless  birch  rising  out  of 
the  tiny  grass  plot  and  the  bleached  vines  of  sweet  peas 
draping  the  fence  palings. 

The  woman  wh6  opened  the  door  at  his  knock  stood 


THE    LAST    BRIDGE  269 

before  him  a  living  link  with  that  dreamlike  past,  un 
changed  except  in  minor  details,  a  little  more  spare 
perhaps  and  grayer  for  the  years  he  had  been  gone, 
but  dressed  in  the  same  dull  black,  with  the  same  spot 
less  apron,  the  same  bit  of  a  white  lace  cap  over  her 
thin  hair,  the  same  pince-nez  astride  a  high  bony  nose. 

Aunt  Lavina  did  not  know  him  in  his  uniform.  He 
made  himself  known.  The  old  lady  gazed  at  him  search- 
ingly.  Her  lips  worked.  She  threw  her  arms  about 
his  neck,  laughing  and  sobbing  in  the  same  breath. 

"  Surely,  it's  myself,"  Thompson  patted  her  shoulder. 
"  I'm  off  to  the  front  in  a  few  days  and  I  thought  I'd 
better  look  you  up.  How's  Aunt  Hattie?  " 

Aunt  Lavina  disengaged  herself  from  his  arms,  her 
glasses  askew,  her  faded  old  eyes  wet,  yet  smiling  as 
Thompson  could  not  recall  ever  seeing  her  smile. 

kt  What  a  spectacle  for  the  neighbors,"  she  said 
breathlessly.  "  Me,  at  my  time  of  life,  hugging  and 
kissing  a  soldier  on  the  front  step.  Do  come  in,  Wes 
ley.  Harriet  will  be  so  pleased.  My  dear  boy,  you 
don't  know  how  we  have  worried  about  you.  How  well 
you  look." 

She  drew  him  into  the  parlor.  A  minute  later  Aunt 
Harriet,  with  less  fervor  than  her  sister  perhaps,  made 
it  clear  that  she  was  unequivocally  glad  to  see  him,  that 
any  past  rancor  for  his  departure  from  grace  was  dead 
and  buried. 

They  were  beyond  the  sweeping  current  of  everyday 
life,  living  their  days  in  a  back  eddy,  so  to  speak.  But 
they  were  aware  of  events,  of  the  common  enemy,  of  the 
straining  effort  of  war,  and  they  were  proud  of  their 


270  BURNED    BRIDGES 

nephew  in  the  King's  uniform.  They  twittered  over 
him  like  fond  birds.  He  must  stay  his  leave  out  with 
them. 

At  this  pronunciamento  of  Aunt  Lavina's  a  swift 
glance  passed  between  the  two  old  women.  Thompson 
caught  it,  measured  the  doubt  and  uneasiness  of  the 
mutual  look,  and  was  puzzled  thereby. 

But  he  did  not  fathom  its  source  for  a  day  or  two, 
and  only  then  by  a  process  of  deduction.  They  treated 
him  handsomely,  they  demonstrated  an  affection  which 
moved  him  deeply  because  he  had  never  suspected  its 
existence.  (They  had  always  been  so  precise,  almost 
harsh  with  him  as  a  youngster.)  But  their  living  was 
intolerably  meager.  Disguise  it  with  every  artifice,  a 
paucity  of  resource  —  or  plain  niggardliness  — r  be 
trayed  itself  at  every  meal.  Thompson  discarded  the 
theory  of  niggardliness.  And  proceeding  thence  on  the 
first  conclusion  stood  his  two  aunts  in  a  corner  — 
figuratively,  of  course  —  and  wrung  from  them  a  state 
ment  of  their  financial  status. 

They  were  proud  and  reluctant.  But  Thompson 
had  not  moved  among  and  dealt  with  men  of  the  world 
to  be  baffled  by  two  old  women,  so  presently  he  was  in 
possession  of  certain  facts. 

They  had  not  been  able  to  support  themselves,  to  rear 
and  educate  him,  on  their  income  alone,  and  gradually 
their  small  capital  had  been  consumed.  They  were 
about  to  negotiate  the  sale  of  their  home,  the  proceeds 
of  which  would  keep  them  from  want  —  if  they  did  not 
live  too  long.  They  tried  to  make  light  of  it,  but 
Thompson  grasped  the  tragedy.  They  had  been  born 


THE    LAST    BRIDGE  271 

in  that  brick  cottage  with  the  silver  birch  before  the 
door. 

"  Well,"  he  said  at  length,  "  I  don't  want  to  preempt 
the  Lord's  prerogative  of  providing.  But  I  can't  per 
mit  this  state  of  affairs.  I  wish  you  had  taken  me  into 
your  confidence,  aunties,  when  I  was  a  youngster. 
However,  that  doesn't  matter  now.  Can  you  live  com 
fortably  on  eleven  hundred  dollars  a  year?  " 

Aunt  Harriet  held  up  her  hands. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  she  said,  "  such  a  sum  would  give 
us  luxuries,  us  two  old  women.  But  that  is  out  of  the 
question.  If  we  get  five  thousand  for  the  place  we  shall 
have  to  live  on  a  great  deal  less  than  that." 

"  Forget  that  nonsense  about  selling  this  place," 
Thompson  said  roughly.  That  grated  on  him.  He 
felt  a  sense  of  guilt,  of  responsibility  too  long  neglected. 
"  Where  I'm  going  I  shall  be  supplied  by  the  govern 
ment  with  all  I  need.  I've  made  some  money.  I  own 
war-bonds  sufficient  to  give  you  eleven  hundred  a  year 
in  interest.  I'll  turn  them  over  to  you.  If  I  come 
back  with  a  whole  skin  when  the  war's  over,  I'll  be  able 
to  use  the  capital  in  a  way  to  ppovijde  for  all  of  us.  If 
I  don't  come  back,  you'll  be  secure  against  want  as  long 
as  you  live." 

He  made  good  his  word  before  his  leave  was  up.  He 
had  very  nearly  lost  faith  in  the  value  of  money,  of  any 
material  thing.  He  had  struggled  for  money  and  power 
for  a  purpose,  to  demonstrate  that  he  was  a  man  equal 
to  any  man's  struggle.  He  had  signally  failed  in  his 
purpose,  for  reasons  that  were  still  a  little  obscure  to 
him.  Failure  had  made  him  a  little  bitter,  bred  a  pes- 


BURNED    BRIDGES 

sirnism  it  took  the  plight  of  his  aunts  to  cure.  Even 
if  he  had  failed  to  achieve  his  heart's  desire  he  had 
acquired  power  to  make  two  lives  content.  Save  that 
it  ministered  to  his  self-respect  to  know  that  he  could 
win  in  that  fierce  struggle  of  the  marketplace,  money 
had  lost  its  high  value  for  him.  Money  was  only  a 
means,  not  an  end.  But  to  have  it,  to  be  able  to  bestow 
it  where  it  was  sadly  needed,  was  worth  while,  after  all. 
If  he  "  crashed  "  over  there,  it  was  something  to  have 
banished  the  grim  spectre  of  want  from  these  two  who 
were  old  and  helpless. 

He  was  thinking  of  this  along  with  a  jumble  of  other 
thoughts  as  he  leaned  on  the  rail  of  a  transport  slipping 
with  lights  doused  out  of  the  port  of  Halifax.  There 
was  a  lump  in  his  throat  because  of  those  two  old  women 
who  had  cried  over  him  and  clung  to  him  when  he  left 
them.  There  was  another  woman  on  the  other  side 
of  the  continent  to  whom  his  going  meant  nothing,  he 
supposed,  save  a  duty  laggardly  performed.  And  he 
would  have  sold  his  soul  to  feel  her  arms  around  his  neck 
and  her  lips  on  his  before  he  went. 

"  Oh,  well,"  he  muttered  to  himself  as  he  watched  the 
few  harbor  lights  falling  astern,  yellow  pin-points  on 
the  velvety  black  of  the  shore,  "  this  is  likely  to  be  the 
finish  of  that.  I  think  I've  burned  my  last  bridge. 
And  I  have  learned  to  stand  on  my  own  feet,  whether 
she  believes  so  or  not." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THOMPSON'S  RETURN 

"Anon  we  return,  being  gathered  again 
Across  the  sad  valleys  all  drabbled  with  rain." 

ON  an  evening  near  the  first  of  September,  1918,  a 
Canadian  Pacific  train  rumbled  into  Vancouver  over 
tracks  flanked  on  one  side  by  wharves  and  on  the  other 
by  rows  of  drab  warehouses.  It  rolled,  bell  clanging 
imperiously,  with  decreasing  momentum  until  it  came 
to  a  shuddering  halt  beside  the  depot  that  rises  like  a 
great,  brown  mausoleum  at  the  foot  of  a  hill  on  which 
the  city  sits  looking  on  the  harbor  waters  below. 

Upon  the  long,  shed-roofed  platform  were  gathered 
the  fortunate  few  whose  men  were  on  that  train.  Be 
hind  these  waited  committees  of  welcome  for  stray  dogs 
of  war  who  had  no  kin.  The  environs  of  the  depot 
proper  and  a  great  overhead  bridge,  which  led  traffic  of 
foot  and  wheel  from  the  streets  to  the  docks,  high  over 
the  railway  yards,  were  cluttered  with  humanity  that 
cheered  loudly  at  the  first  dribble  of  khaki  from  the 
train  below. 

It  was  not  a  troop  train,  merely  the  regular  express 
from  the  East.  But  it  bore  a  hundred  returned  men, 
and  news  of  their  coming  had  been  widely  heralded. 
So  the  wives  and  sweethearts,  the  committees,  and  the 
curious,  facile-minded  crowd,  were  there  to  greet  these 


274  BURNED    BRIDGES 

veterans  who  were  mostly  the  unfortunates  of  war, 
armless,  legless  men,  halt  and  lame,  gassed  and  shrap 
nel-scarred  —  and  some  who  bore  no  visible  sign  only 
the  white  face  and  burning  eyes  of  men  who  had  met 
horror  and  walked  with  it  and  suffered  yet  from  the 
sight.  All  the  wounds  of  the  war  are  not  solely  of  the 
flesh,  as  many  a  man  can  testify. 

From  one  coach  there  alighted  a  youngish  man  in  the 
uniform  of  the  Royal  Flying  Corps.  He  carried  a 
black  bag.  He  walked  a  little  stiffly.  Beyond  that  he 
bore  no  outward  trace  of  disablement.  His  step  and 
manner  suggested  no  weakness.  One  had  to  look  close 
to  discern  pallor  and  a  peculiar  roving  habit  of  the 
eyes,  a  queer  tensity  of  the  body.  A  neurologist,  versed 
in  the  by-products  of  war,  could  have  made  a  fair  guess 
at  this  man's  medical-history  sheet.  But  the  folk  on 
the  platform  that  night  were  not  specialists  in  subtle 
diagnosis  of  the  nervous  system.  Nor  were  the  com 
mittees.  They  were  male  and  female  of  those  who  had 
done  their  bit  at  home,  were  doing  it  now,  welcoming 
their  broken  heroes.  The  sight  of  a  man  with  a  scarred 
face,  a  mutilated  limb,  elicited  their  superficial  sym 
pathy,  while  the  hidden  sickness  of  racked  nerves  in 
an  unmaimed  body  they  simply  could  not  grasp. 

So  this  man  with  the  black  bag  and  the  wings  on  his 
left  arm  walked  the  length  of  the  platform,  gained  the 
steel  stairway  which  led  to  the  main  floor  of  the  depot, 
and  when  he  had  climbed  half-way  stopped  to  rest  and 
to  look  down  over  the  rail. 

Below,  the  mass  of  humanity  was  gravitating  into 
little  groups  here  and  there  about  a  khaki  center. 


THOMPSON'S  RETURN  275 

There  was  laughter,  and  shrill  voices,  with  an  occasional 
hysterical  note.  There  were  men  surrounded  by  women 
and  children,  and  there  were  others  by  twos  and  threes 
and  singly  who  looked  enviously  at  these  little  groups 
of  the  reunited,  men  who  moved  haltingly  on  their  way 
to  the  city  above,  perfunctorily  greeted,  perfunctorily 
handshaken,  and  perfunctorily  smiled  upon  by  the  of 
ficial  welcomers. 

He  looked  at  this  awhile,  with  a  speculative,  pitying 
air,  and  continued  his  climb,  passing  at  last  through 
great  doors  into  a  waiting-room,  a  place  of  high, 
vaulted  ceilings,  marble  pillars,  beautiful  tiled  floors. 
He  evaded  welcoming  matrons  on  the  watch  for  unat 
tached  officers,  to  hale  them  into  an  anteroom  reserved 
for  such,  to  feed  them  sandwiches  and  doubtful  coffee, 
and  to  elicit  tales  of  their  part  in  the  grim  business 
overseas.  This  man  avoided  the  cordial  clutches  of  the 
socially  elect  by  the  simple  expedient  of  saying  that  his 
people  expected  him.  He  uttered  this  polite  fiction  in 
self-defense.  He  did  not  want  to  talk  or  be  fed.  He 
was  sick  of  noise,  weary  of  voices,  irritated  by  raucous 
sounds.  All  he  desired  was  a  quiet  place  away  from 
the  confusion  of  which  he  had  been  a  part  for  many 
days,  to  get  speedily  beyond  range  of  the  medley  of 
voices  and  people  that  reminded  him  of  nothing  so  much 
as  a  great  flock  of  seagulls  swooping  and  crying  over 
a  school  of  herring. 

He  passed  on  to  the  outer  door  which  gave  on  the 
street  where  taxi  drivers  and  hotel  runners  bawled  their 
wares,  and  here  in  the  entrance  met  the  first  face  he 
knew.  A  man  about  his  own  age,  somewhat  shorter,  a 


276  BURNED    BRIDGES 

great  deal  thicker  through  the  waist,  impeccably 
dressed,  shouldered  his  way  through  a  group  at  the 
exit. 

Their  eyes  met.  Into  the  faces  of  both  leaped  in 
stant  recognition.  The  soldier  pressed  forward  eagerly. 
The  other  stood  his  ground.  There  was  a  look  which 
approached  unbelief  on  his  round,  rather  florid  fea 
tures.  But  he  grasped  the  extended  hand  readily 
enough. 

"  By  jove,  it  ig  you,  Wes,"  he  said.  "  I  couldn't 
believe  my  eyes.  So  you're  back  alive,  eh?  You  were 
reported  killed,  you  know.  Shot  down  behind  the  Ger 
man  lines.  You  made  quite  a  record,  didn't  you? 
How's  everything  over  there?  " 

There  was  a  peculiar  quality  in  Tommy  Ashe's  tone, 
a  something  that  was  neither  aloofness  nor  friendliness, 
nor  anything  that  Wes  Thompson  could  immediately 
classify.  But  it  was  there,  a  something  Tommy  tried  to 
suppress  and  still  failed  to  suppress.  His  words  were 
hearty,  but  his  manner  was  not.  And  this  he  confirmed 
by  his  actions.  Thompson  said  that  things  over  there 
were  going  well,  and  let  it  go  at  that.  He  was  more 
vitally  concerned  just  then  with  over  here.  But  before 
he  could  fairly  ask  a  question  Tommy  seized  his  hand 
and  wrung  it  in  farewell. 

"  Pardon  my  rush,  old  man,"  he  said.  "  I've  got  an 
appointment  I  can't  afford  to  pass  up,  and  I'm  late 
already.  Look  me  up  to-morrow,  will  you  ?  " 

Two  years  is  long  for  some  things,  over-brief  for 
others.  In  Thompson  those  twenty-four  months  had 
softened  certain  perspectives.  He  had  quickened  at 


THOMPSON'S  RETURN  277 

sight  of  Tommy's  familiar  face,  albeit  that  face  was  a 
trifle  grosser,  more  smugly  complacent  than  he  had  ever 
expected  to  behold  it.  He  could  mark  the  change  more 
surely  for  the  gap  in  time.  But  Tommy  had  not  been 
glad  to  see  him.  Thompson  felt  that  under  the  outward 
cordiality. 

He  took  up  his  bag  and  went  out  on  the  street,  hailed 
the  least  vociferous  of  the  taxi  pirates  and  had  himself 
driven  to  the  Granada  Hotel.  His  brows  were  still 
knitting  in  abstracted  thought  when  a  bell-boy  had 
transported  the  black  bag  and  himself  to  a  room  on 
the  sixth  floor,  received  his  gratuity  and  departed. 
Thompson  was  high  above  the  rumble  of  street  cars, 
facing  a  thoroughfare  given  largely  to  motor  traffic, 
with  a  window  which  overlooked  the  lower  town  and 
harbor,  and  the  great  hills  across  the  Inlet  looming 
duskily  massive  against  the  paler  sky. 

He  stood  by  the  window  looking  over  roofs  and  traf 
fic  and  the  glow-worm  light  of  shipping  in  the  stream. 
He  could  smell  the  sea,  the  brown  kelp  bared  on  rocky 
beaches  by  a  falling  tide.  And  he  fancied  that  even  at 
that  distance  he  could  get  a  whiff  of  the  fir  and  cedar 
that  clothed  the  mountain  flank. 

"  By  God,"  he  whispered.     "  It's  good  to  be  back." 

He  said  it  much  as  a  man  might  breathe  a  prayer. 
All  this  that  he  saw  now  had  lingered  in  his  memory, 
had  risen  up  to  confront  him  as  something  beautiful 
and  desirable,  many  times  when  he  never  expected  to 
see  it  again.  For  it  was  not  logical,  he  held,  that  he 
should  survive  where  so  many  others  had  perished.  It 
was  just  a  whimsey  of  Fate.  And  he  was  duly  and 


278  BURNED    BRIDGES 

honestly  grateful  that  it  had  been  permitted  him  to 
outlive  many  gallant  comrades  in  the  perilous  service 
of  the  air. 

Three  days  and  nights  on  a  train  close  upon  long 
months  in  hospital  had  left  him  very  tired.  Rest  both 
his  body  and  uneasy  nerves  craved  insistently.  Al 
though  it  lacked  some  minutes  of  eight,  he  threw  off  his 
clothes  and  went  to  bed. 

In  the  morning  he  rose  refreshed,  eager  to  be  about, 
to  look  up  men  he  knew,  to  talk  of  things  beyond  the 
scope  of  war. 

But  when  he  went  out  into  Vancouver's  highways  and 
met  people,  his  uniform  gave  them  a  conversational  cue. 
And  he  found  that  here,  six  thousand  miles  from  the 
guns,  even  less  than  among  his  fellows  in  the  hangars 
behind  the  fighting  line  could  he  escape  that  topic.  He 
did  not  want  to  talk  about  fighting  and  killing.  He 
had  lived  those  things  and  that  was  enough.  So  he 
came  back  to  the  Granada  and  read  the  papers  and  had 
his  lunch  and  decided  to  look  up  Tommy  Ashe. 

He  had  learned  casually  that  morning  that  Tommy's 
company  had  more  than  made  good  Tommy's  prophecy 
of  swift  work.  Tommy  Ashe  and  Joe  Hedley  were 
rising  young  men. 

**  Oh,  yes,  they've  got  a  mint,"  a  broker  he  knew  said 
to  Thompson,  with  an  unconcealed  note  of  envy.  "  Bv 
gad,  it's  a  marvel  how  a  pair  of  young  cubs  like  that 
can  start  on  a  shoestring  and  make  half  a  million  apiece 
in  two  years." 

"  How  did  they  both  manage  to  escape  the  draft? 
Thompson  asked.     "  I'm  sure  Ashe  is  a  Class  A  man. 


THOMPSON'S  RETURN  279 

"  Huh !  "  the  broker  snorted.  "  Necessary  govern 
ment  undertakings.  Necessary  hell!  All  they  had  to 
do  with  the  shipbuilding  was  to  bank  their  rake-off.  I 
tell  you,  Thompson,  this  country  has  supported  the  war 
in  great  style  —  but  there's  been  a  lot  of  raw  stuff  in 
places  where  you  wouldn't  suspect  it.  I'm  not  knock 
ing,  y'  understand.  This  is  no  time  to  knock.  But 
when  the  war's  over,  we've  got  to  do  some  house- 
cleaning." 

Thompson  called  the  shipyard  first.  In  the  glow  of 
a  sunny  September  morning  he  felt  that  he  must  have 
imagined  Tommy's  attitude.  He  was  a  fair-minded 
man,  and  he  gave  Tommy  the  benefit  of  the  doubt. 

But  he  failed  to  get  in  touch  with  Tommy.  A  voice 
informed  him  politely  that  Mr.  Ashe  had  left  town  that 
morning  and  would  be  gone  several  days. 

Thompson  hung  up  the  receiver.  For  at  least  five 
minutes  he  sat  debating  with  himself.  Then  he  took 
it  down  again. 

"  Give  me  Seymour  365L,"  he  said  to  Central. 

"  Hello." 

"  Is  Mr.  Carr  at  home?  " 

"  You  have  the  wrong  number,"  he  was  answered,  and 
he  heard  the  connection  break. 

He  tried  again,  and  once  more  the  same  voice,  this 
time  impatiently,  said,  "  Wrong  number." 

"  Wait,"  Thompson  said  quickly.  "  Is  this  Seymour 
365L,  corner  of  Larch  and  First?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  beg  pardon  for  bothering  you.  I'm  just  back 
from  overseas  and  I'm  rather  anxious  to  locate  Mr. 


28o  BURNED    BRIDGES 

Carr  —  Samuel  A.  Carr.     This  was  his  home  two  years 
ago." 

"  Just  a  minute,"  the  feminine  voice  had  recovered 
its    original    sweetness.     "Perhaps    I    can    help    youv;j 
Hold  the  line." 

Thompson  waited.  Presently  he  was  being  ad 
dressed  again. 

"  My  husband  believes  Mr.  Carr  still  owns  this  place. 
We  lease  through  an  agent,  however,  Lyng  and  Sal 
mon,  Credit  Foncier  Building.  Probably  they  will  be 
able  to  give  you  the  required  information." 

"  Thanks,"  Thompson  said. 

He  found  Lyng  and  Salmon's  number  in  the  tele 
phone  book.  But  the  lady  was  mistaken.  Carr  had 
sold  the  place.  Nor  did  Lyng  and  Salmon  know  hi* 
whereabouts. 

Tommy  would  know.     But  Tommy  was  out  of  town. 
Still  there  were  other  sources  of  information.     A  man! 
like  Carr  could  not  make  his  home  in  a  place  no  largeif 
than  Vancouver  and  drop  out  of  sight  without  a  ripplej 
Thompson  stuck  doggedly  to  the  telephone,  sought  out 
numbers  and  called  them  up.     In  the  course  of  an  hour 
he  was  in  possession  of  several  facts.     Sam  Carr  was 
up  the  coast,  operating  a  timber  and  land  undertaking 
for  returned  soldiers.     The  precise  location  he  could 
not  discover,  beyond  the  general  one  of  Toba  Inlet. 

They  still  maintained  a  residence  in  town,  an  apart 
ment  suite.  From  the  caretaker  of  that  he  learned  that 
Sophie  spent  most  of  her  time  with  her  father,  and  that 
their  coming  and  going  was  uncertain  and  unheralded. 

The  latter  facts  were  purely  incidental,  save  one 


THOMPSON'S  RETURN  281 

y 

Tommy  Ashe  had  that  morning  cleared  the  Alert  for 
a  coastwise  voyage. 

Sam  Carr  and  Sophie  were  up  the  coast.  Tommy 
was  up  the  coast.  Thompson  sat  for  a  time  in  deep 
study.  Very  well,  then.  He,  too,  would  journey  up 
the  coast.  He  had  not  come  six  thousand  miles  to  loaf 
in  a  hotel  lobby  and  wear  out  shoe  leather  on  concrete 
walks. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

FAIR  WINDS 

WITHIN  a  gunshot  of  the  heart  of  Vancouver  lies  a 
snug  tidal  basin  where  yachts  swing  to  their  moorings, 
where  a  mosquito  fleet  of  motor  craft  lies  along  narrow 
slips,  with  the  green  woods  of  Stanley  Park  for  a  back 
ground.  Thompson  knew  Coal  Harbor  well.  He  knew 
the  slips  and  the  boats  and  many  of  the  men  who  owned 
them.  He  had  gone  on  many  a  week-end  cruise  out  of 
that  basin  with  young  fellows  who  looked  their  last  on 
the  sea  when  they  crossed  the  English  Channel.  So  he 
had  picked  up  a  working  fund  of  nautical  practice,  a 
first-hand  knowledge  of  the  sea  and  the  manner  of 
handling  small  sail. 

From  the  Granada  he  went  straight  to  Coal  Harbor. 
While  the  afternoon  was  yet  young  he  had  chartered  a 
yawl,  a  true  one-man  craft,  carrying  plenty  of  canvas 
for  her  inches,  but  not  too  much.  She  had  a  small, 
snug  cabin,  was  well-found  as  to  gear,  and  was  equipped 
with  a  sturdy  single-cylinder  gas  engine  to  kick  her 
along  through  calm  and  tideway. 

Before  six  he  had  her  ready  for  sea,  his  dunnage  bag 
aboard,  grub  in  the  lockers,  gas  in  the  tanks,  clearance 
from  the  customhouse.  He  slept  aboard  in  a  bunk 
softer  than  many  a  sleeping  place  that  had  fallen  to 


FAIR    WINDS  283 

his  lot  in  France.  And  at  sunrise  the  outgoing  tide 
bore  him  swiftly  through  the  Narrows  and  spewed  him 
out  on  the  broad  bosom  of  the  Gulf  of  Georgia,  all 
ruffled  by  a  stiff  breeze  that  heeled  the  little  yawl  and 
sent  her  scudding  like  a  gray  gull  when  Thompson  laid 
her  west,  a  half  north,  to  clear  Roger  Curtis  Point. 

He  blew  through  Welcome  Pass  at  noon  on  the  fore 
front  of  a  rising  gale,  with  the  sun  peeping  furtively 
through  cracks  in  a  gathering  cloudbank.  As  the  wind 
freshened,  the  manes  of  the  white  horses  curled  higher 
and  whiter.  Thompson  tied  in  his  last  reef  in  the  lee 
of  a  point  midway  of  the  Pass.  Once  clear  of  it  the 
marching  surges  lifted  the  yawl  and  bore  her  racing 
forward,  and  when  the  crest  passed  she  would  drop 
into  a  green  hollow  like  a  bird  to  its  nest,  to  lift  and 
race  and  sink  deep  in  the  trough  again. 

But  she  made  merry  weather  of  it.  And  Thompson 
rode  the  tiller,  an  eye  to  his  sheets,  glorying  in  his 
mastery  of  the  sea.  It  was  good  to  be  there  with  a 
clean  wind  whistling  through  taut  stays,  no  sound  but 
the  ripple  of  water  streaming  under  his  lee,  and  the 
swoosh  of  breaking  seas  that  had  no  power  to  harm 
him.  Peace  rode  with  him.  His  body  rested,  and  the 
tension  left  his  nerves  which  for  months  had  been  strung 
like  the  gut  on  a  violin. 

Between  Welcome  Pass  and  Cape  Coburn  the  south 
easter  loosed  its  full  fury  on  him.  The  seas  rose  steeper 
at  the  turn  of  the  tide,  broke  with  a  wicked  curl.  He 
put  the  Cape  on  his  lee  after  a  wild  fifteen  minutes 
among  dangerous  tiderips,  and  then  prudence  drove 
him  to  shelter. 


284  BURNED    BRIDGES 

He  put  into  a  bottle-necked  cove  gained  by  a  passage 
scarce  twenty  feet  wide  which  opened  to  a  quiet  lagoon 
where  no  wind  could  come  and  where  the  swell  was 
broken  into  a  foamy  jumble  at  the  narrow  entrance. 

He  cooked  his  supper,  ate,  watched  the  sun  drop 
behind  the  encircling  rim  of  firs.  Then  he  lay  on  a 
cushion  in  the  cockpit  until  dark  came  and  the  green 
shore  of  the  little  bay  grew  dim  and  then  black  and 
the  dusky  water  under  the  yawl's  counter  was  split  with 
the  phosphorescent  flashes  of  darting  fish. 

Across  a  peninsula,  on  the  weather  side  of  the  Cape, 
he  could  hear  the  seas  thud  and  the  surf  growl  like  the 
distant  booming  of  heavy  batteries.  Over  his  head  the 
wind  whistled  and  whined  in  the  firs  with  a  whistle  and 
a  whine  like  machine-gun  bullets  that  have  missed  their 
mark.  But  neither  of  these  sounds  held  the  menace  of 
the  sounds  of  which  they  reminded  him.  He  listened 
to  those  diapasons  and  thin  trebles  and  was  strangely 
soothed.  And  at  last  he  grew  sleepy  and  turned  in  to 
his  bunk. 

Some  time  in  the  night  he  had  a  weird  sort  of  dream. 
He  was  falling,  falling  swiftly  from  a  great  height  in 
the  air.  On  the  tail  of  his  plane  rode  a  German,  with 
a  face  like  those  newspaper  caricatures  of  the  Kaiser, 
who  shot  at  him  with  a  trench  mortar  —  boom  —  boom 
—  boom  —  boom ! 

Thompson  found  himself  sitting  up  in  his  bunk.  The 
queer  dream  had  given  place  to  reality,  in  which  the 
staccato  explosions  continued.  As  he  put  his  face  to 
an  open  porthole  a  narrow,  searching  ray  of  uncommon 
brilliance  flashed  over  his  yawl  and  picked  up  the  shore 


FAIR    WINDS  285 

beyond.  Back  of  the  searchlight  lifted  the  red,  green, 
and  white  triangle  of  running  lights  laid  dead  for  him. 
It  sheered  a  little.  The  brilliant  ray  blinked  out. 
He  saw  a  dim  bulk,  a  pale  glimmer  through  cabin  win 
dows,  heard  the  murmur  of  voices  and  the  rattle  of 
anchor  chain  running  through  hawse  pipe.  Then  he 
closed  his  eyes  and  slept  again. 

He  rose  with  the  sun.  Beside  him  lay  a  sturdily 
built  motor  tug.  A  man  leaned  on  the  towing  bitts  aft, 
smoking  a  pipe,  gazing  at  the  yawl.  Twenty  feet  would 
have  spanned  the  distance  between  them. 

Thompson  emerged  into  the  cockpit.  The  air  was 
cool  and  he  was  fully  dressed.  At  sight  of  the  uniform 
with  the  insignia  on  sleeve  and  collar  the  man  straight 
ened  up,  came  to  attention,  lifted  his  hand  smartly  in 
the  military  salute  —  the  formality  tempered  by  a 
friendly  grin.  Thompson  saw  then  that  the  man  had  a 
steel  hook  where  his  left  hand  should  have  been.  Also 
a  livid  scar  across  his  cheek  where  a  bullet  or  shrapnel 
had  plowed. 

"  It's  a  fine  morning  after  a  wild  night,"  Thompson 
broke  the  conversational  ice. 

"  It  was  a  wild  night  outside  and  no  mistake,"  the 
man  replied.  "  We  took  cover  about  midnight  —  got 
tired  of  plowing  into  it,  and  wasn't  too  keen  for  wallow 
ing  through  them  rips  off  the  Cape.  Say,  are  you  back 
long  from  over  there?  " 

"  Not  long,"  Thompson  replied.  "  I  left  England 
two  weeks  ago." 

"  How's  it  going?  " 

"  We're    over    the    hump,"    Thompson    told    him. 


286  BURNED    BRIDGES 

"  They're  outgunned  now.  The  Americans  are  there  in 
force.  And  we  have  them  beaten  in  the  air  at  last. 
You  know  what  that  means  if  you've  been  across." 

"  Don't  I  know  it,"  the  man  responded  feelingly. 
"  By  the  Lord,  it's  me  that  does  know  it.  I  was  there 
when  the  shoe  was  on  the  other  foot.  I  was  a  gunner 
in  the  Sixty-eighth  Battery,  and  you  can  believe  me 
there  was  times  when  it  made  us  sick  to  see  German 
planes  overhead.  Well,  I  hope  they  give  Fritz  hell. 
He  gave  it  to  us." 

"  They  will,"  Thompson  answered  simply,  and  on 
that  word  their  talk  of  the  war  ended.  They  spoke  of 
Vancouver,  and  of  the  coast  generally. 

"  By  the  way,  do  you  happen  to  know  whereabouts 
in  Toba  Inlet  a  man  named  Carr  is  located?  "  Thomp 
son  bethought  him  of  his  quest.  "  Sam  Carr.  He  is 
operating  some  sort  of  settlement  for  returned  men, 
I've  been  told." 

"  Sam  Carr?  Sure.  The  Squatta  here  belongs  to 
him  —  or  to  the  Company  —  and  Carr  is  just  about 
the  Company  himself." 

A  voice  from  the  interior  abaft  the  wheelhouse  bel 
lowed  "  Grub-pi-1-e." 

"  That's  breakfast,"  the  man  said.  "  I  see  you  ain't 
lighted  your  fire  yet.  Come  and  have  a  bite  with  us. 
Here,  make  this  line  fast  and  lay  alongside  " 

The  wind  had  died  with  the  dawn,  and  the  sea  was 
abating.  The  Squatta  went  her  way  within  the  hour, 
and  so  did  Thompson.  There  was  still  a  small  air  out 
of  the  southeast,  sufficient  to  give  him  stcerageway  in 
the  swell  that  ran  for  hours  after  the  storm.  Between 


FAIR    WINDS  287 

sail  and  power  he  made  the  Redonda  Islands  and  passed 
between  them  far  up  the  narrow  gut  of  Waddington 
Channel,  lying  in  a  nook  near  the  northern  end  of  that 
deep  pass  when  night  came  on.  And  by  late  afternoon 
the  following  day  he  had  traversed  the  mountain-walled 
length  of  Toba  Inlet  and  moored  his  yawl  beside  a  great 
boom  of  new-cut  logs  at  the  mouth  of  Toba  River. 

Thanks  to  meeting  the  Squalla  he  knew  his  ground. 
Also  he  knew  something  of  Sam  Carr's  undertaking. 
The  main  camp  was  four  miles  up  the  stream.  The 
deep  fin-keel  of  the  yawl  barred  him  from  crossing  the 
shoals  at  the  river  mouth  except  on  a  twelve-foot  tide. 
So  he  lay  at  the  boom,  planning  to  go  up  the  river 
next  morning  in  the  canoe  he  towed  astern  in  lieu  of  a 
dinghy. 

He  sat  on  his  cushions  in  the  cockpit  that  evening 
looking  up  at  a  calm,  star-speckled  sky.  On  either 
side  of  him  mountain  ranges  lifted  like  quiescent  sau- 
rians,  heads  resting  on  the  summit  of  the  Coast  Range, 
tails  sweeping  away  in  a  fifty-mile  curve  to  a  lesser 
elevation  and  the  open  waters  of  the  Gulf.  The  watery 
floor  of  Toba  Inlet  lay  hushed  between,  silvered  by  a 
moon-path,  shimmering  under  the  same  pale  rays  that 
struck  bluish-white  reflections  from  a  glacier  high  on 
the  northern  side.  It  was  ghostly  still  at  the  mouth  of 
the  valley  whence  the  Toba  River  stole  down  to  salt 
water,  with  somber  forests  lining  the  beach  and  clinging 
darkly  on  the  steep  slopes.  A  lone  light  peeped  from 
the  window  of  a  cabin  on  shore.  The  silence  was  thick, 
uncanny.  But  it  was  a  comforting  silence  to  Thomp 
son.  He  felt  no  loneliness,  he  whom  the  lonely  places 


288  BURNED    BRIDGES 

had  once  appalled.  But  that  was  a  long  time  ago. 
Sitting  there  thinking  of  that,  he  smiled. 

No  man  lives  by,  for,  or  because  of  love  alone. 
Nor  does  a  woman,  although  the  poets  and  romancers 
have  very  nearly  led  us  to  believe  a  woman  does. 
Yet  it  is  a  vital  factor  upon  some  occasions,  in  many 
natures.  There  had  been  times  in  Thompson's  life 
when  the  passion  Sophie  Carr  kindled  in  him  seemed  a 
conflagration  that  must  either  transfigure  or  destroy 
him.  It  was  like  a  volcano  that  slept,  and  woke 
betimes. 

The  last  two  years  had  rather  blotted  out  those 
periods  of  eruption.  He  had  given  her  up,  and  in 
giving  up  all  hope  of  her,  Sophie  and  everything  that 
linked  her  with  him  from  Lone  Moose  to  the  last  time 
he  saw  her  had  grown  dim,  like  a  book  read  long  ago 
and  put  by  on  the  shelf.  In  the  fierce  usages  of  aerial 
warfare  distracted  thought,  any  relaxing  from  an  eagle- 
like  alertness  upon  the  business  in  hand,  meant  death 
swift  and  certain.  And  no  man,  even  a  man  whose 
heart  is  sore,  wishes  to  die.  The  will-to-live  is  too 
strong  in  him.  Pride  spurs  him.  To  come  off  vic 
torious  over  a  concrete  enemy,  to  uphold  the  traditions 
of  his  race,  to  be  of  service  —  these  things  will  carry 
any  man  over  desperate  places  without  faltering,  if  he 
feels  them. 

And  Wes  Thompson  had  experienced  that  sort  of 
vision  rather  keenly.  It  had  driven  him,  a  man  of 
peaceful  tendency,  to  blood-drenched  fields.  For  two 
years  he  had  been  in  another  world,  in  a  service  that 
demanded  of  a  man  all  that  was  in  him.  He  was  just 


FAIR    WINDS  289 

beginning  to  be  conscious  that  for  so  long  he  had  been 
detached  from  life  that  flowed  in  natural,  normal 
channels. 

He  was  conscious  too,  of  a  queer,  impersonal  manner 
of  thinking  about  things  and  people,  now  that  he  was 
back.  He  wondered  about  himself.  What  particular 
motive,  for  instance,  had  driven  him  up  here?  To  be 
sure  there  was  the  very  plausible  one  of  obeying  a 
physician's  order  about  living  in  the  open,  of  keeping 
decent  hours,  of  avoiding  crowds  and  excitement  until 
he  was  quite  himself  again.  But  he  could  have  done 
that  without  coming  to  Toba  Inlet. 

Of  course  he  wanted  to  see  Sam  Carr  again.  Also 
he  wanted  to  see  Sophie.  Why  he  wished  to  see  her 
was  not  so  readily  answered.  He  wanted  to  see  her 
again,  that  was  all  —  just  as  he  had  wanted  to  see 
Canada  and  his  aunts,  and  the  green  slopes  of  the 
Pacific  again.  Because  all  these  things  and  people  were 
links  with  a  past  that  was  good  and  kindly  by  com 
parison  with  the  too-vivid  recent  days.  Yes,  surely, 
he  would  be  glad  to  see  Sam  Carr  —  and  Sophie.  When 
he  recalled  the  last  time  he  spoke  with  her  he  could  smile 
a  little  wryly.  It  had  been  almost  a  tragedy  then.  It 
did  not  seem  much  now.  The  man  who  had  piloted  a 
battle-plane  over  swaying  armies  in  France  could  smile 
reminiscently  at  being  called  a  rabbit  by  an  angry  girl. 

It  was  queer  Sophie  had  never  married.  His  thought 
took  that  turn  presently.  She  was  —  he  checked  the 
years  on  his  fingers  —  oh,  well,  she  was  only  twenty- 
four.  Still,  she  was  no  frail,  bloodless  creature,  but  a 
woman  destined  by  nature  for  mating,  a  beautiful 


290  BURNED    BRIDGES 

woman  well  fit  to  mother  beautiful  daughters  and  strong 
sons,  to  fill  a  lover  with  joy  and  a  husband  with  pride. 

A  queer  warmth  flushed  Thompson's  cheek  when  he 
thought  of  Sophie  this  wise.  A  jealous  feeling  stabbed 
at  him.  The  virus  was  still  in  his  blood,  he  became 
suddenly  aware.  And  then  he  laughed  out  loud,  at  his 
own  camouflaging.  He  had  known  it  all  the  time.  And 
this  trip  it  would  be  kill  or  cure,  he  said  to  himself 
whimsically. 

Still  it  wag  odd,  now  he  came  to  think  of  it,  that 
Sophie  had  never  in  those  years  found  a  man  quite  to 
her  liking.  She  had  had  choice  enough,  Thompson 
knew.  But  it  was  no  more  strange,  after  all,  than  for 
himself  never  to  have  looked  with  tender  eyes  on  any 
one  of  the  women  he  had  known.  He  had  liked  them, 
but  he  hadn't  ever  got  past  the  stage  of  comparing 
them  with  Sophie  Carr.  She  had  always  been  the 
standard  he  set  to  judge  the  others.  Thompson  real 
ized  that  he  was  quite  a  hopeless  case  in  this  respect. 

"  I  must  be  a  sort  of  a  freak,"  he  muttered  to  himself 
when  he  was  stowed  away  in  his  blankets.  "  I  wonder 
if  I  could  like  another  woman  as  well,  if  I  tried?  Well, 
well  see,  we'll  see." 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

TWO  MEN  AND  A  WOMAN 

THOMPSON  drove  his  canoe  around  a  jutting  point 
and  came  upon  a  white  cruiser  swinging  at  anchor  in 
an  eddy.  Her  lines  were  familiar  though  he  had  not 
seen  her  in  two  years.  In  any  case  the  name  Alert  in 
gold  leaf  on  her  bows  would  have  enlightened  him.  He 
was  not  particularly  surprised  to  find  Tommy's  motor 
boat  there.  He  had  half-expected  to  find  Tommy  Ashe 
hereabouts. 

A  man's  head  rose  above  the  after  companion-hatch 
as  the  canoe  glided  abreast. 

"  Is  Mr.  A  she  aboard  ?  "  Thompson  asked. 

The  man  shook  his  head. 

"  Went  up  to  Carr's  camp  a  while  ago." 

"  When  did  you  get  in?  "  Thompson  inquired  further. 

"  Last  night.  Lost  a  day  laying  up  at  Blind  Bay 
for  a  southeaster.  Gee,  she  did  blow." 

Thompson  smiled  and  passed  on.  Blind  Bay  was 
only  two  miles  from  Cape  Coburn.  Just  a  narrow  neck 
of  land  had  separated  them  that  blustery  night.  It 
was  almost  like  a  race.  Tommy  would  not  be  pleased 
to  see  him  treading  so  close  on  his  heels.  Thompson 
felt  that  intuitively.  All  was  fair  in  love  and  war. 
Still,  even  in  aerial  warfare,  ruthless  and  desperate  as 


292  BURNED    BRIDGES 

it  was,  there  were  certain  courtesies,  a  certain  element 
of  punctilio.  Thompson  had  an  intuition  that  Ashe 
would  not  subscribe  to  even  that  simple  code.  In  fact 
he  began  to  have  a  premonition  of  impending  conflict  as 
he  thrust  stoutly  on  his  paddle  blade.  Tommy  had 
changed.  He  was  no  longer  the  simple,  straightfor 
ward  soul  with  whom  Thompson  had  fought  man-fash 
ion  on  the  bank  of  Lone  Moose,  and  with  whom  he  had 
afterward  achieved  friendship  on  a  long  and  bitter 
trail. 

Three  hundred  yards  past  the  Alert  he  came  to  a 
landing  stage  which  fitted  the  description  given  by  the 
skipper  of  the  Squalla.  Thompson  hauled  his  canoe 
out  on  the  float,  gained  the  shore,  and  found  a  path 
bordering  the  bank.  He  followed  this.  Not  greatly 
distant  he  could  hear  the  blows  of  chopping,  the  shrill 
blasts  of  a  donkey-engine  whistle  and  the  whirr  of  the 
engine  itself  as  it  shuddered  and  strained  on  its  an 
chored  skids,  reeling  up  half  a  mile,  more  or  less,  of 
inch  and  a  quarter  steel  cable,  snaking  a  forty-foot  log 
out  of  the  woods  as  a  child  would  haul  a  toothpick  on 
the  end  of  a  string. 

Before  long  the  brush-floored  forest  opened  on  a 
small  area  of  parked  wood.  In  this  pleasant  place 
stood  a  square  block  of  a  house.  From  a  tall  staff  flut 
tered  the  Union  Jack.  As  Thompson  came  near  this 
the  door  opened  and  a  group  of  youngsters  tumbled 
out  pell-mell  and  began  to  frolic.  Thompson  looked 
at  his  watch.  He  had  stumbled  on  a  school  in  the  hour 
of  morning  recess. 

"  Where  does  Mr.  Carr  live  ?  "  he  asked  one  of  these 


TWO    MEN    AND    A    WOMAN          293 

urchins  when  he  got  near  enough  to  have  speech  with 
him. 

The  youngster  pointed  up-stream. 

"  First  house  you  come  to,"  he  said.  "  White  house 
with  shingles  painted  green.  Say,  mister,  have  you 
just  come  from  the  war?  My  dad  was  over  there.  Do 
you  know  my  dad,  mister?  " 

The  boy  stood  gazing  at  him,  apparently  hopeful  of 
paternal  acquaintance,  until  he  discovered  that  Thomp 
son  did  not  know  his  "  dad."  Then  he  darted  back  to 
join  his  fellows  at  their  game. 

Thompson  walked  on.  The  white  house  with  green 
shingles  loomed  up  near  at  hand,  with  a  clump  of 
flaming  maples  beside  it.  Past  that  stood  other  houses 
in  an  orderly  row  facing  the  river,  and  back  of  them 
were  sheds  and  barns,  and  beyond  the  group  of  build 
ings  spread  a  wide  area  of  cleared  land  with  charred 
stumps  still  dotting  many  an  acre. 

He  had  to  enter  the  place  he  took  to  be  Sam  Carr's 
by  the  back  yard,  so  to  speak.  That  is,  he  came  up 
from  the  rear,  passed  alongside  the  house  —  and  halted 
abruptly,  with  his  foot  on  the  first  of  three  steps  rising 
to  a  roomy  verandah. 

He  had  not  meant  to  eavesdrop,  to  listen  to  words 
not  meant  for  his  hearing.  But  he  had  worn  the  com 
mon  footgear  of  yachtsmen,  a  pair  of  rubber-soled  can 
vas  shoes,  and  so  had  come  to  the  verandah  end  unseen 
and  noiselessly.  He  was  arrested  there  by  the  sight 
of  two  people  and  the  mention  of  his  own  name  by  one 
of  them. 

Sophie  was  sitting  on  the  rail,  looking  soberly  down 


294  BURNED    BRIDGES 

on  the  glacial  gray  of  Toba  River.  There  was  a  queer 
expression  on  her  face,  a  mixture  of  protest  and  resig 
nation.  Tommy  Ashe  stood  beside  her.  He  had  im 
prisoned  one  of  her  hands  between  his  own  and  he  was 
speaking  rapidly,  eagerly,  passionately. 

Thompsori  had  heard  without  meaning  to  hear.  And 
what  he  heard,  just  a  detached  sentence  or  two,  shot 
him  through  with  a  sudden  blaze  of  anger.  He  stepped 
up  on  the  floor,  took  quickly  the  three  strides  that  sep 
arated  him  from  Tommy. 

"  You  are  nothing  but  a  common  liar,"  he  challenged 
bluntly.  "  You  know  you  are,  when  you  speak  of  me 
as  being  dead.  Is  that  why  you  scuttled  out  of  Van 
couver  and  hurried  on  here,  as  soon  as  you  saw  me 
back?  " 

Ashe  shrank  back  a  step.  His  naturally  florid  face 
grew  purple.  Thompson  matched  him  glance  for 
glance,  wondering  as  the  moments  ticked  off  why  Tommy 
glared  and  did  not  strike. 

"  Your  heart  has  grown  as  flabby  as  your  princi 
ples,"  he  said  at  last  contemptuously. 

For  the  instant,  in  anger  at  a  lie,  in  that  fighting 
mood  which  puts  other  considerations  into  abeyance 
when  it  grips  a  man,  Thompson  gave  no  heed  to  Sophie 
—  until  he  felt  her  hand  on  his  arm  and  looked  down 
into  her  upturned  face,  white  and  troubled,  into  gray 
eyes  that  glowed  with  some  peculiar  fire. 

"  It  is  really,  truly  you  ?  "  she  said  in  a  choked  voice. 

"  Of  course,"  he  answered  —  and  he  could  not  help  a 
little  fling.  "  You  see  I  am  no  longer  a  rabbit.  I 
don't  like  your  friend  here.  He  has  tried  to  sneak  a 


TWO    MEN    AND    A    WOMAN          295 

march  on  me,  and  I  suspect  it  is  not  the  first.  I  feel 
like  hurting  him." 

She  paid  not  the  least  heed  to  that. 

"  You  were  officially  reported  dead,"  she  went  on. 
"  Reported  shot  down  behind  the  German  lines  a  year 
ago." 

"  I  know  I  was  reported  dead,  and  so  have  many 
other  men  who  still  live,"  he  said  gently.  "  I  was  shot 
down,  but  I  escaped  and  flew  again,  and  was  shot  down 
a  second  time  and  still  am  here  not  so  much  the  worse." 

Sophie  slipped  her  hand  into  his  and  turned  on 
Tommy  Ashe. 

"  And  you  knew  this  ?  "  she  said  slowly.  "  Yet  you 
came  here  to  me  this  morning  —  and  —  and  — " 

She  stopped  with  a  break  in  her  voice. 

"  I  didn't  believe  you  were  capable  of  a  thing  like 
that,  Tommy,"  she  continued  sadly.  "  I'm  ashamed  of 
you.  You'd  better  go  away  at  once." 

Ashe  looked  at  her  and  then  at  Thompson,  and  his 
face  fell.  Thompson,  watching  him  as  a  man  watches 
his  antagonist,  saw  Tommy's  lips  tremble,  a  suspicious 
blur  creep  into  his  eyes.  Even  in  his  anger  he  felt 
sorry  for  Tommy. 

The  next  instant  the  two  of  them  stood  alone, 
Sophie's  hand  caught  fast  in  his.  She  tried  to  with 
draw  it.  The  red  leaped  into  her  cheeks.  But  there 
was  still  that  queer  glow  in  her  eyes. 

Thompson  looked  down  at  the  imprisoned  hand. 

"You'll  never  get  that  away  from  me  again,"  he 
said  whimsically.  "  You  see,  I  am  not  a  rabbit,  but  a 
man,  no  matter  what  you  thought  once.  And  when  a 


296  BURNED    BRIDGES 

man  really  wants  a  thing,  he  takes  it  if  he  can.  And  I 
want  you  —  so  —  you  see  ?  " 

For  answer  Sophie  hid  her  hot  face  against  his 
breast. 

"  Ah,  I'm  ashamed  of  myself  too,"  he  heard  a  muf 
fled  whisper.  "  I  sent  you  away  into  that  hell  over 
there  with  a  sneer  instead  of  a  blessing.  And  I  was  too 
ashamed,  and  a  little  afraid,  to  write  and  tell  you  what 
a  fool  I  was,  that  I'd  made  a  mistake  and  was  sorry. 
I  couldn't  do  anything  only  wait,  and  hope  you'd  come 
back.  Didn't  you  hate  me  for  my  miserable  holier- 
than-thou  preachment  that  day,  Wes  ?  " 

"Why,  no,"  he  said  honestly.  "It  hurt  like  the 
devil,  of  course.  You  see  it  was  partly  true.  I  teas 
going  along,  making  money,  playing  my  own  little  hand 
for  all  it  was  worth.  I  couldn't  rush  off  to  the  front 
just  to  demonstrate  to  all  and  sundry  —  even  to  you  — 
that  I  was  a  brave  man  and  a  patriot.  You  under 
stand,  don't  you?  It  took  me  quite  a  while  to  feel,  to 
really  and  truly  feel,  that  I  ought  to  go  —  which  I 
suppose  you  felt  right  at  the  beginning.  When  I  did 
see  it  that  way  —  well,  I  didn't  advertise.  I  just  got 
ready  and  went.  If  you  had  not  been  out  of  sorts  that 
day,  I  might  have  gone  away  with  a  kiss  instead  of  your 
contempt.  But  I  didn't  blame  you.  Besides,  that's 
neither  here  nor  there,  now.  You're  a  prisoner.  You 
can  only  be  paroled  on  condition." 

Sophie  smiled  up  at  him,  and  was  kissed  for  her  pains. 

"  Name  the  condition." 

"  That  you  love  me.     I've  waited  a  long  time  for  it." 

"  I've  always  loved  you,"  she  said  gravely.     "  Some- 


TWO    MEN    AND    A    WOMAN          297 

times  more,  sometimes  less.  I  haven't  always  believed 
we  could  be  happy  together.  Sometimes  I  have  been 
positive  we  couldn't.  But  I've  always  measured  other 
men  by  you,  and  none  of  them  quite  measured  up.  That 
was  why  it  stung  me  so  to  see  you  so  indifferent  about 
the  war.  Probably  if  you  had  talked  about  it  to  me, 
if  I  had  known  you  were  thinking  of  going,  I  should 
have  been  afraid  you  would  go,  I  should  have  been 
afraid  for  you.  But  you  seemed  always  so  uncon 
cerned.  It  maddened  me  to  think  I  cared  so  much  for 
a  man  who  cared  nothing  about  wrongs  and  injustices, 
who  could  sit  contentedly  at  home  while  other  men 
sacrificed  themselves.  My  dear,  I'm  afraid  I'm  an 
erratic  person,  a  woman  whose  heart  and  head  are 
nearly  always  at  odds." 

Thompson  laughed,  looking  down  at  her  with  an  air 
of  pride. 

"  That  is  to  say  you  would  always  rather  be  sure 
than  sorry,"  he  remarked.  "  Well,  you  can  be  sure  of 
one  thing,  Sophie.  You  can't  admit  that  you  really  do 
care  for  me  and  then  run  away,  as  you  did  at  Lone 
Moose.  I  have  managed  to  stand  on  my  own  feet  at 
last,  and  your  penalty  for  liking  me  and  managing  to 
conceal  the  fact  these  many  moons  is  that  you  must 
stand  with  me." 

She  drew  his  face  down  to  her  and  kissed  it.  Thomp 
son  held  her  fast. 

"  I  can  stand  a  lot  of  that,"  he  said  happily. 

"  You  may  have  to,"  she  murmured.  "  I  am  a 
woman,  not  a  bisque  doll.  And  I've  waited  a  long  time 
for  the  right  man." 


CHAPTER  XXX 

A    MARK    TO   SHOOT  AT 

AN  hour  or  so  later  Sam  Carr  came  trudging  home 
with  a  rod  in  his  hand  and  a  creel  slung  from  his  shoul 
der,  in  which  creel  reposed  a  half  dozen  silver-sided 
trout  on  a  bed  of  grass. 

"  Well,  well,  well,"  he  said,  at  sight  of  Thompson, 
and  looked  earnestly  at  the  two  of  them,  until  at  last  a 
slow  smile  began  to  play  about  his  thin  lips.  "  Now, 
like  the  ancient  Roman,  I  can  wrap  my  toga  about  me 
and  die  in  peace." 

"  Oh,  Dad,  what  a  thing  to  say,"  Sophie  protested. 

"  Figuratively,  my  dear,  figuratively,"  he  assured 
her.  "  Merely  my  way  of  saying  that  I  am  glad  your 
man  has  come  home  from  the  war,  and  that  you  can 
smile  again." 

He  tweaked  her  ear  playfully,  when  Sophie  blushed. 
They  went  into  the  house,  and  the  trout  disappeared 
kitchenward  in  charge  of  a  bland  Chinaman,  to  re 
appear  later  on  the  luncheon  table  in  a  state  of  delicious 
brown  crispness.  After  that  Carr  smoked  a  cigar  and 
Thompson  a  cigarette,  and  Sophie  sat  between  them 
with  the  old,  quizzical  twinkle  in  her  eyes  and  a  smile 
hovering  about  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 


A    MARK    TO    SHOOT    AT  299 

"  Come  out  and  let's  make  the  round  of  the  works, 
you  two,"  Carr  suggested  at  last. 

"  You  go,  Wes,"  Sophie  said.  "  I  have  promised  to 
help  a  struggling  young  housewife  with  some  sewing 
this  afternoon." 

So  they  set  forth,  Carr  and  Thompson,  on  a  path 
through  the  woods  toward  where  the  donkey  engines 
filled  the  valley  with  their  shrill  tootings  and  the  shud 
der  of  their  mighty  labor.  And  as  they  went,  Carr 
talked. 

"  All  this  was  virgin  forest  when  you  went  away," 
said  he.  "  The  first  axe  was  laid  to  the  timber  a  year 
ago  last  spring.  I  want  you  to  take  particular  notice 
of  this  timber.  Isn't  it  magnificent  stuff?  We  are 
sending  out  a  little  aeroplane  spruce,  too.  Not  a  great 
deal,  but  every  little  helps." 

It  was  a  splendid  forest  that  they  traversed,  a  level 
area  clothed  with  cedar  and  spruce  and  fir,  lifting 
brown  trunks  of  six  and  seven-foot  girth  to  a  great 
height.  And  in  a  few  minutes  they  came  upon  a  falling 
gang  at  work.  Two  men  on  their  springboards,  six 
feet  above  the  ground,  plying  an  eight-foot  saw.  They 
stood  to  watch.  Presently  the  saw  ate  through  to  the 
undercut,  a  deep  notch  on  the  leaning  side,  and  the  top 
swayed,  moved  slowly  earthward.  The  sawyers  leaped 
from  their  narrow  footing.  One  cried  "  Tim-b-r-r-r." 
And  the  tree  swept  in  a  great  arc,  smiting  the  earth 
with  a  crash  of  breaking  boughs  and  the  thud  of  an 
arrested  landslide. 

Beyond  that  there  was  a  logged  space,  littered  with 
broken  branches,  stumps,  tops,  cut  with  troughs  plowed 


300  BURNED    BRIDGES 

deep  in  the  soil,  where  the  donkey  had  skidded  out  the 
logs.  And  there  was  the  engine  puffing  and  straining, 
and  the  steel  cables  running  away  among  the  trees, 
spooling  up  on  the  drums,  whining  and  whistling  in  the 
iron  sheaves.  It  was  like  war,  Thompson  thought, 
that  purposeful  activity,  the  tremendous  forces  har 
nessed  and  obedient  to  man  —  only  these  were  forces 
yoked  to  man's  needs,  not  to  his  destruction. 

They  lingered  awhile  watching  the  crew  work,  chat 
ted  with  them  in  spare  moments.  Then  Carr  led 
Thompson  away  through  the  woods  again,  and  pres 
ently  took  him  across  another  stretch  of  stumps  where 
men  were  drilling  and  blasting  out  the  roots  of  the 
ravished  trees,  on  to  fields  where  grain  and  grass  and 
root  crops  were  ripening  in  the  September  sun,  and 
at  last  by  another  cluster  of  houses  to  the  bank  of  the 
river  again.  Here  Carr  sat  down  on  a  log,  and  began 
to  fill  a  pipe. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "what  do  you  think  of  it?  " 

"  For  eighteen  months'  work  you  have  made  an 
astonishing  amount  of  headway,"  Thompson  observed. 
"  This  is  hard  land  to  clear." 

"Yes,"  Carr  admitted.  "But  it's  rich  land  — all 
alluvial,  this  whole  valley.  Anything  that  can  be 
grown  in  this  latitude  will  grow  like  a  village  scandal 
here." 

He  lighted  his  pipe. 

"  I  tried  high  living  and  it  didn't  agree  with  me," 
Carr  said  abruptly.  "  I  have  tried  a  variety  of  things 
since  I  left  the  North,  and  none  of  them  has  seemed 
worth  while.  I'm  not  a  philanthropist.  I  hate  char- 


A    MARK    TO    SHOOT    AT  301 

itable    projects.     They're    so    damned    unscientific  — 
don't  you  think  so?  " 

Thompson  nodded. 

"  You  know  that  about  the  time  you  left,  discharged 
soldiers  were  beginning  to  drift  back,"  Carr  continued 
"  Drift  is  about  the  word.  The  cripples  of  war  will 
be  taken  care  of.  Their  case  is  obvious,  too  obvious 
to  be  overlooked  or  evaded.  But  there  are  returned 
men  who  are  not  cripples,  and  still  are  unfit  for  mili 
tary  duty.  They  came  back  to  civilian  existence,  and 
a  lot  of  them  didn't  fit  in.  The  jobs  they  could  get 
were  not  the  jobs  they  could  do.  As  more  and  more 
of  them  came  home  the  problem  grew  more  and  more 
acute.  It  is  still  acute,  and  I  rather  think  it  will  grow 
more  acute  until  the  crisis  comes  with  the  end  of  the 
war  and  God  knows  how  many  thousands  of  men  will 
be  chucked  into  civil  life,  which  cannot  possibly  absorb 
them  again  as  things  are  going  at  present.  It's  a 
problem.  Public-spirited  men  have  taken  it  up.  The 
government  took  the  problem  of  the  returned  soldier 
into  consideration.  So  far  as  I  know  they  are  still 
considering  it.  The  Provincial  Legislature  talked  — 
and  has  done  nothing.  The  Dominion  Government  has 
talked  a  lot,  but  nothing  more  than  temporary  meas 
ures  has  come  out  of  it.  Nothing  practical.  You 
can't  feed  men  with  promises  of  after-the-war  recon 
struction. 

"  All  this  was  apparent  to  me.  So  I  talked  it  over 
with  Sophie  and  one  or  two  other  men  who  wanted  to 
do  something,  and  we  talked  to  returned  soldiers.  We 
couldn't  do  what  it's  the  business  of  the  country  to 


302  BURNED    BRIDGES 

do  —  and  may  perhaps  do  when  the  red  tape  is  finally 
untangled.  But  we  could  do  something,  with  a  little 
brains  and  money  and  initiative.  So  we  went  at  it. 

"  I  formed  a  joint  stock  company.  We  secured  all 
the  timber  limits  in  this  valley.  We  got  together  a 
little  group  for  a  start.  They  were  returned  men,  some 
physically  handicapped,  but  eager  to  do  something  for 
themselves.  A  man  with  that  spirit  always  makes 
good  if  he  gets  a  chance.  We  put  in  machinery  and 
gear,  put  up  a  small  sawmill  for  ourselves,  tore  into  the 
logging  business,  cleared  land,  built  houses.  You  see 
we  are  quite  a  community.  And  we  are  a  self-support 
ing  community.  Some  of  these  men  own  stock  in  the 
company.  Any  returned  man  can  find  a  place  for  him 
self  here.  There  is  room  and  work  and  security  and 
ultimate  independence  here  for  any  man  willing  to  co 
operate  for  the  common  welfare.  This  valley  runs  for 
miles.  As  fast  as  the  land  is  logged  off  it  is  open 
for  soldier  entry.  There  is  room  here  for  five  hundred 
families.  So  you  see  there  is  a  lot  of  scope. 

"  It  was  in  the  nature  of  an  experiment.  There  were 
people  who  sneered.  And  it  is  working  out  well. 
There  is  not  the  slightest  taint  of  charity  in  it.  If  I 
used  a  lot  of  money  that  may  be  a  long  time  coming 
back  to  me  that  is  my  own  business.  Everybody  here 
pays  his  own  way.  All  these  men  needed  was  backing 
and  direction." 

Carr  looked  away  across  the  clearing.  His  glance 
swept  the  houses,  and  fields,  and  the  distant  woods 
where  the  logging  crews  labored. 

"  And  there  are  valleys  and  valleys,"  he  said  thought- 


A    MARK    TO    SHOOT    AT  303 

fully ;  "  when  they  are  cleared  and  cultivated  there  is 
endless  room  in  them  for  people  who  want  elbow-room, 
who  want  to  live  without  riding  on  the  other  fellow's 
back. 

"  Better  get  in  with  us,  Wes,"  he  said  abruptly. 
"I'm  getting  old.  It  won't  be  long  before  I  have  to 
quit.  This  thing  will  need  a  pilot  for  a  long  time  yet. 
Men  will  always  have  to  have  a  leader.  You  can  do 
good  here.  Big  oaks,  you  know,  from  little  acorns.  I 
mean,  if  this  project  continues  to  achieve  success,  it 
might  blaze  the  way  for  a  national  undertaking.  We 
said  that  a  country  that  was  worth  living  in  was  worth 
fighting  for.  We  are  liars  and  cheats  if  we  do  not 
make  it  so  for  those  who  did  our  fighting." 

"  I  wouldn't  mind  taking  a  hand  in  this  game," 
Thompson  said.  "  But  the  war  is  still  on.  If  that 
were  over  —  well,  yes,  Toba  Valley  looks  good  to  me." 

"  You  aren't  out  of  it  for  good,  then?  " 

Thompson  shook  his  head. 

Carr  put  his  hand  on  Thompson's  shoulder.  "  Ah, 
well,"  he  said.  "  It  won't  be  long  now.  You'll  be  back. 
You  can  put  on  an  aerial  mail  service  for  us,  as  your 
first  undertaking." 

He  chuckled,  and  they  left  their  log  and  strolled  back 
toward  the  house. 

"  Come  and  I'll  show  you  what  the  valley  looks  like, 
Wes,"  Sophie  said  to  him,  when  they  had  finished  din 
ner,  and  Carr  had  his  nose  buried  in  mail  just  that 
evening  arrived. 

She  led  him  a  hundred  yards  up-stream  to  where  a 


304  BURNED    BRIDGES 

footbridge  slung  upon  steel  cables  spanned  the  Toba, 
crossed  that  and  a  little  flat  on  the  north  side,  and 
climbed  up  the  flank  of  a  slide-scarred  hill  until  she 
came  out  on  a  little  plateau. 

"  Look,"  she  waved  her  hand,  panting  a  little  from 
the  steepness  of  the  climb. 

Five  hundred  feet  below,  the  valley  of  the  Toba  spread 
its  timbered  greenness,  through  which  looped  in  sweep 
ing  curves  the  steel-gray  of  the  river.  In  a  great  bend 
immediately  beneath  them  lay  the  houses  of  the  settle 
ment,  facing  upon  the  stream.  Farther  along  were 
isolated  homesteads  which  he  had  not  seen.  Back  of 
these  spread  little  gardens,  and  the  green  square  of 
cultivated  fields,  and  beyond  in  greater  expanse  the 
stump-dotted  land  that  was  still  in  the  making. 

The  smoke  of  the  donkey-engines  was  vanished,  fires 
grown  cold  with  the  end  of  the  day's  work.  But  up- 
river  and  down  the  spoil  of  axe  and  saw  lay  in  red 
booms  along  the  bank.  He  could  mark  the  place  where 
he  had  stood  that  afternoon  and  watched  a  puffing 
yarder  bunt  a  string  of  forty-foot  logs  into  the  boom- 
ing-ground.  He  could  see  figures  about  in  the  gardens, 
and  the  shrill  voices  and  laughter  of  children  echoed  up 
to  them  on  the  hill. 

"  It  is  a  great  view,  and  there  is  more  in  it  than  meets 
the  eye,"  Thompson  said.  "Eh,  little  woman?  The 
greatest  war  of  all,  the  biggest  struggle.  One  that  never 
ends.  Man  struggling  to  subdue  his  environment  to 
his  needs." 

Sophie  smiled  understandingly.  She  looked  over  the 
valley  with  a  wistful  air. 


A    MARK    TO    SHOOT    AT  305 

"  Did  you  ever  read  *  The  Sons  of  Martha  '  ?  "  she 
asked.  Do  you  remember  these  lines: 

"  '  Not  as  a  ladder  to  reach  high  Heaven, 

Not  as  an  altar  to  any  creed, 
But  simple  service  simply  given 

To  his  own  kind  in  their  common  need.' " 

"  It  is  a  noble  mark  to  shoot  at,"  Thompson  said. 

He  fell  silent.     Sophie  went  on  after  a  minute. 

"  Dad  said  he  was  going  back  to  first  principles  when 
he  began  this.  There  are  men  here  who  have  found 
economic  salvation  and  self-respect,  who  think  he  is 
greater  than  any  general.  I'm  proud  of  dad.  He 
wanted  to  do  something.  What  he  has  accomplished 
makes  all  my  puttering  about  at  what,  after  all,  was 
pure  charity,  a  puerile  sort  of  service.  I  gave  that  up 
after  you  went  away."  She  snuggled  one  hand  into  his. 
"  It  didn't  seem  worth  while  —  nothing  seemed  worth 
while  until  dad  evolved  this." 

She  waved  her  hand  again  over  the  valley.  Thomp 
son's  eyes  gleamed.  It  was  good  to  look  at,  good  to 
think  of.  It  was  good  to  be  there.  He  remembered, 
with  uncanny,  disturbing  clearness  of  vision,  things  he 
had  looked  down  upon  from  a  greater  height  over  bloody 
stretches  in  France.  And  he  shuddered  a  little. 

Sophie  felt  the  small  tremor  run  through  him. 

"What  is  it?"  she  whispered  anxiously. 

"  It  is  beautiful,  and  I  can  appreciate  its  beauty  all 
the  more  from  seeing  it  with  you.  I'd  like  to  take  a 
hand  in  this,"  he  said  quietly.  **  I  was  just  comparing 
it  with  other  things  —  and  wondering." 


306  BURNED    BRIDGES 

"  Wondering  what?  " 

"If  I'll  get  back  to  this  —  and  you,"  he  said,  with 
his  arms  around  her.  "  Oh,  well,  I've  got  three  months' 
leave.  That's  a  lot." 

Sophie  looked  at  him  out  of  troubled  eyes.  Her 
voice  shook. 

"You  will  be  ordered  to  the  front  again?  " 

He  nodded.     "  Very  likely." 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  go,"  she  broke  out  passion 
ately.  "  You  mustn't.  Oh,  Wes,  Wes !  " 

"  Do  you  think  I  like  the  prospect  any  better?  "  he 
said  tenderly.  "  But  I  am  an  officer  in  the  Royal 
Flying  Corps,  and  the  war  is  not  over  yet.  Buck  up, 
sweetheart.  I  had  six  months'  training,  a  year  in 
fighting  planes,  six  months  in  hospital,  and  barring  an 
occasional  spell  of  uncertain  nerves,  I  am  still  as  good 
as  ever.  Don't  worry.  I  was  silly  to  say  what  I 
thought,  I  suppose." 

"  Nevertheless,  it  is  true,"  she  said.  "  You  may  go 
again  and  never  come  back.  But  I  suppose  one  must 
face  that.  Thousands  of  women  have  had  to  face  it. 
Why  should  I  be  exempt?  " 

She  wiped  her  eyes  and  smiled  uncertainly. 

"  We  shall  simply  have  to  keep  that  in  the  back 
ground.  I  want  to  forget  everything  but  that  you  are 
here  and  that  I'm  happy,"  she  whispered,  with  her 
arms  about  his  neck.  "  I  want  to  forget  everything 
else  —  until  it's  time  for  you  to  go." 

"  Amen, "  Thompson  replied,  and  kissed  her,  and 
then  they  went  silently,  hand  in  hand  down  to  the 
swinging  bridge  with  the  sun  gone  to  rest  below  the 


A    MARK    TO    SHOOT    AT  307 

western  sky-line,  and  dusk  creeping  softly  up  over  the 
valley  floor. 

There  will  be  those  who,  having  followed  so  far,  will 
desire  further  light.  They  will  ask  naively:  Did  Wes 
Thompson  go  back  to  the  front  and  get  killed?  Did 
they  marry  and  find  lasting  happiness? 

To  these  curious  folk  who  seek  explicit  detail,  I  can 
only  point  out  that  Wes  Thompson  had  three  months' 
leave  which  ran  into  November,  and  that  to  Sophie 
that  ninety  days  loomed  like  a  stay  of  execution.  I 
would  ask  them  further  to  recall  the  eleventh  of  No 
vember,  1918  —  and  so  the  first  question  is  duly  an 
swered. 

As  for  the  second  —  I  am  no  soothsayer.  I  cannot 
foretell  the  future.  Most  certainly  they  married.  At 
once  —  with  a  haste  prudery  and  lovers  of  formalism 
might  term  indecent. 

Whether  they  live  happily  who  can  say  ?  Some 
where  between  the  day  he  first  looked  on  Sophie  Carr 
at  Lone  Moose  and  the  day  he  fell  five  thousand  feet  to 
earth  in  a  flaming  battle-plane,  keeping  his  life  by  one 
of  war's  miracles,  Wes  Thompson  lived  and  loved  and 
suffered  perhaps  a  little  more  than  falls  to  the  common 
lot.  He  sloughed  off  prejudices  and  cant  and  igno 
rance  and  narrowness  in  those  six  years  as  a  tree  sheds 
its  foliage  in  autumn. 

A  man  may  come  to  doubt  the  omnipotence  of  God 
without  denying  his  Maker.  He  may  scorn  churchly 
creeds  and  cleave  to  the  Golden  Rule.  He  may  hate 
greed  and  oppression,  and  injustice  and  intolerance, 


3o8  BURNED    BRIDGES 

and  ruthless  exploitation  of  man  by  man  —  and  still 
hold  firm  faith  in  humanity,  still  yearn  to  love  his 
neighbor  as  himself. 

To  do  good,  to  fight  hard  and  play  fair,  to  love 
faithfully  and  to  desire  love,  to  go  out  of  the  world 
when  his  time  should  come  with  the  knowledge  of  having 
at  least  tried  to  make  it  a  little  better  for  those  who 
were  in  it,  and  for  those  who  should  come  after.  That 
was  Wes  Thompson's  working  philosophy  of  life  —  if 
he  might  be  said  to  have  a  philosophy  —  although  he 
certainly  never  formulated  it  in  words. 

He  married  a  woman  whom  he  loved  dearly,  who 
loved  him,  was  proud  of  him,  who  saw  life  as  he  did  — 
through  tolerant,  comprehending  eyes.  So  if  you  ask 
whether  they  found  real  and  lasting  happiness  I  can 
only  cite  you  bald  facts.  I  cannot  prophesy.  But  I 
wish  my  chances  were  as  good. 

THE    END 


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